

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 


Shelf. 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




SM 


ms»m 















iOTKA 


** 

















Subscription Price, $6.00 pef Vear. 

Issued Monthly. FEBRUARY, XSQX* 

Entered at Post Ofittce, New York, at second-class rates. 



FIFTEENTH THOUSAND 


HIS LAST PASSION 



A SENSATIONAL AND REALISTIC STORY OF ENGLISH 
MODERN LIFE 



JBy marxius 

EDITED BY THE AUTHOR OF “UNSATISFIED” 



fj E W Y O ?? 5^ 

THE MINERVA PUBLISHING COMPANY 

48 University Plsee 


' 1 \ '■''■' '! V'-: * ’■ ■/■ , VV ' ■' '-'r*" '•■ ■‘■' ■ ,'* i. '* , f''" V% i V’^' ' 


VJ , 


H‘:'J 






■■ '/*< '■ *'" 


■ ,•.■ • -f , ^ - ■ ■ ■ ~ ■ -f t ■'•■,■ '^ ‘ 

■ - Vf ' • '-:^' ' v>- ■ ■ V-. ■■•■;• - ■ /;■- 

',' 'fS'' ' ■>' ' y>'''' ' ■’ 

. ' . -'v‘ ' • ■ . ' *. ■ ' ■ 


■■ 

» 1 , • . 






\'v' •• I '.V., ■• 

^I’y.i'o l \ V ;• ''‘I-. . '• .-. 


- 


'. : s 


.y>'. . 


s.- 

. ■' ^ 


. 


; '• 


sMM'S-: 

; --'V " ::' y . 

:■"■■ : -V ' -^ ■:'■/. .v^.. 


V 


^:^^v 


. \ ■ ' 


% 


' i 


■■ 


•4 

■■■ •-•. ■■■'■"■:./ z': ' '. "■' ‘ ;• ' '■'■ '• ’ ' ■■ 

‘ - ■^!■■■ ' - ' "u‘vV"- . '■ -■■ ■ ^ ' 'V' : ■ v ■ , . ' ■ 






FIFTEENTH THOUSAND 


HIS LAST PASSION 

A 

Sensational anb IRealistic Stor^ 

OF 

ENGLISH MODERN LIFE 


By MARTIUS 



Edited by the Author of “ Unsatisfied” 


“ Oic est a ceste heure, la fletir de nia vie, fleiir coupie par cet estuv 
feminin comme par ciseaulx ." — De Balzac 

“ Sin let loose speaks punishment at hand.” — Cowper 


[all rights reserved] 



S'! ■ yi' / 


NEW YORK 

THE MINERVA PUBLISHING COMPANY 
48 University Place 
1891 





( 


Copyright, 1891, 

BY THE 

MINERVA PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


DEDICATION. 


To most men it is permitted, at least once in their lives, 
to meet a true woman ; no angel, no fairy, no impossible 
creation of the poet’s fancy, but a woman subject to human 
passions, to human temptations, to human weaknesses, and 
yet so far above the majority of her sisters that the man 
who wins her friendship or her love, however unfortunate 
his surroundings may have been, must of necessity gain a 
higher opinion of her whole sex, and feel himself drawn 
towards nobler aspirations. To such a woman I dedicate 
this book. 


THE AUTHOR. 





, N' 

I 


» 


« 


' I 


1 






« , 


/ 

|S'* 



t 


I 


-A 


i * 




V >', . 

^ 

V 

, t - 

V 


•N 



\ 


k 






\ 


t 


•. 

j ► »* ' 

'N . ^ 


i 



T 



I \ 


. k 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER. 


PAGE. 

I. 

DsfCRt ^ .. ..• 


II 

II. 

Election Humours 


i8 

III. 

A Dinner 


27 

IV. 

Ella Macleod 


41 

V. 

Mors Amoris 

• •• 

49 

VI. 

The First Visit 

••• 

55 

VII. 

At Charing Cross 


66 

VIII. 

A Lady of Fashion 


72 

IX. 

A Foreign Prince 


81 

X. 

The Holborn Restaurant 


93 

XI. 

A Stance Missed 

• •• 

102 

XII. 

Concerning Clothes 


112 

XIII. 

Morning Reflections 


122 

XIV. 

His Honour — and Hers 


132 

XV. 

Miss Gooseberry 


142 

XVI. 

The Little Rift 


157 

XVII. 

My Heart’s in the Highlands a-Chasing 



the Deer 


172 

CVIII. 

The Bride of the Sea 

... 

183 

XIX. 

A Letter 

... 

200 

XX. 

Victory 

... 

218 


A 


0 , 


i ' ' 




/ 


/ 


PREFACE 


“ Ce n*est plus de IHmagination, c'est de la dedmoHon comme chez 
Us savants.^* This sentence of Emile Zola’s in his “ Roman 
Experimental," embodying, as it does, his idea of what a novel 
should be in order to be in any way useful, is the guide which 
1 have set before me in writing this story. 

I have taken certain characters, I have brought them in 
contact with each other. I have considered the milieu in 
which they moved, and then I have thought out what must 
be the result of the action and reaction of those particular 
idiosyncracies upon one another, and I have written down 
the logical conclusion, resolved to tell la verite vraie, even at 
the risk of marring a dramatic situation or of incurring the 
critic’s displeasure. 

It may be objected to me that I have not described a 
single perfect character. My answer is that perfect charac- 
ters are rare, especially in such a set as I have chosen. 
It must not be supposed that I would libel modern 
society by implying that all coteries are so corrupt as that 
into which I have introduced the reader. On the contrary, 
I am aware that there are many sets existing now in London 


Viii PREFACE. 

in which a woman like Ella Macleod would have developed 
into a useful and loveable wife and mother — especially under 
the guidance of some man of stronger principle than Ronald 
Macleod. 

Of my heroine — if such a title will apply to Lady Atherley 
—I may say that there are women enough of her stamp to 
excuse my choosing her as a type and yet I trust they are 
not so plentiful that every reader of this book shall be able 
to name one of his acquaintances who bears a strong 
resemblance to her. 

From an ethical point of view, I know that it would have 
been better to bring upon my characters a greater punish- 
ment than I have done. But I write for men and women of 
the world, who know that comparatively few liaisons lead 
to a public scandal with all its bitter consequences. 
Probably every man and woman who treads the dan- 
gerous path of a guilty love thinks at the outset 
that he or she will have sufficient cleverness to avoid dis- 
covery, but I have endeavoured to show that even where a 
home is not roughly broken up, all happiness may be and 
often is banished from it by dallying with temptation. 

“Where lives the man that has not tried 
How mirth can into folly glide 
And folly into sin ? " 


Scott. 


HIS LAST PASSION 


CHAPTER I. 

DEFEAT. 

In the vestry room of Sandborough, at a long table 
covered with green baize, which had become black 
round the edges from the countless inkstains of a genera- 
tion of careless parish officials, sat nine men. In front 
of the raised desk in the centre of the table was a small 
heap of flimsy-looking printed papers, while on each 
side of this centre heap lay an equal number of small 
rolls of similar papers, with an elastic band round all. 

“ Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine ! I only make 
forty-nine in this bundle. Will you count them your- 
self, Mr. Mayor ?*’ asked a little man with a grizzled beard 
and gold-rimmed spectacles, rising from his seat and 
handing the bundle to a grave energetic looking man 
of forty or forty -five, who sat behind the raised desk in 
the centre of the table. 

Placing his left hand in the edge of the bundle and 
wetting the forefinger of his right hand, the Mayor of 
Sandborough rapidly, but deliberately, ran through the 
papers. “ There are fifty here,” said he, “ I find it 
correct,” at the same time handing the bundle to one 
of the overseers of the borough sitting on his left 
hand, who counted the papers one by one in a mono- 
tonous voice till he came to “ Fifty.” 

“ Are you satisfied, gentlemen ?” asked the Mayor, 
leaning back in his chair, with a look of resignation. 

“ I should like to count them myself,” said a little 
man with a very fresh complexion, large prominent 


12 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


eyes, sleek black hair, and a nose which told plainly of 
his descent from the most ancient people in the world. 

“ Well, Mr. Pilsener, as one of the candidates for 
this borough, you have the right to do so, though it 
seems to me rather useless,” said the Mayor. “ How- 
ever, as you please,” and he handed the bundle across 
the table to Mr. Pilsener with a gesture of impatience. 

But the Liberal candidate for Sandborough was not 
a man to be abashed by any gestures whatever, and he 
calmly set to work, not only to count the voting papers, 
but also to examine each one carefully, turning it over, 
holding it up to the light, and, in fact, subjecting it to 
the most minute scrutiny. 

“ It is correct, as I feared it would be,” he exclaimed, 
after he had finished his examination and handed the 
papers back with a smile, which was particularly 
addressed to the Mayor, but which also included all 
those present. 

“ So far the numbers are remarkably near,” said the 
Mayor, with a sigh of relief, “ and I trust our task is 
nearly over. I make it at present 401 for Mr. Macleod 
and 397 for Mr. Pilsener ; but there are still the spoiled 
votes — nineteen of them, I think. We must now 
examine them.” Then he took up the small heap in the 
centre of the table, and after examining each paper with 
the greatest care, he handed it first to the overseers 
and afterwards to the agents of the candidates, and 
lastly to the candidates themselves ; and when everyone 
had made his remarks upon them, they were delivered 
back to him, and he gave his decision. “ This one is 
signed with the voter’s initials ; it is disallowed. This 
one has the cross just outside the square, but it is evident 
that the voter intended to give his vote to Mr. Pilsener ; 
I must accept it. Another, evidently intended for Mr. 
Pilsener, though the cross is not quite in the right 
place ; this must count. Here is one on which the 
voter has put a cross against each name — he has had 
so much doubt about the matter that we can have none. 
It is void.” And so on till the nineteen had all been dis- 
posed of. “ Of these votes,” said the Mayor, “ eight 
are undoubtedly bad, but the remaining eleven are 
evidently bond fidi votes, and show unmistakably for 
whom they are intended ; so that I think it my duty to 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


13 


count them. There are two for Mr. Macleod and nine 
for Mr. Pilsener, making the totals for Mr. Macleod 
403 and for Mr. Pilsener 406 ; so that if both candi- 
dates are satisfied, I shall proceed to declare Mr. 
Pilsener duly elected. At the same time, either candi- 
date is at liberty to have the votes counted again, 
should he desire it.” 

“ I should prefer to have them examined again,” said 
Mr. Macleod, standing up, “ for though I have every 
confidence in the correctness of the counting, still the 
numbers are so very near that it is just possible there 
may be a mistake.” 

Though his voice sounded clearly through the room, 
yet a slight tremor might have been detected in it, 
and an almost imperceptible flush rose to his cheeks. 
He was a tall slight man of thirty-five, though he 
looked fully five years younger. His eyes were large 
and almost black, his nose straight and delicately cut, 
except that the nostrils were a little too wide. His 
upper lip, which was shaded by a rather heavy but 
silky moustache, might have served as a model for a 
sculptor, but a fullness about the under lip gave an air 
of sensuality to the whole face, which would otherwise 
have been exceedingly refined. His appearance was 
somewhat unusual, the lips being very red, the hair 
black — with the peculiar blackness of unmixed Celtic 
descent — and the face so pale that its pallor would have 
been almost disagreeable had it not been for the 
extreme transparency of the skin, upon which his 
thirty-five years had scarcely written a wrinkle, 
except a very deeply marked one which commenced 
between his eyebrows and ran upwards almost to 
the roots of his hair. His whiskers were scarcely 
an inch long, but his hair was rather longer than 
any young man about town would consider correct, 
and in his dress he already affected that quiet style 
which is more usual with men at least ten years his 
senior. 

He wore a black frock coat, a turned down collar 
with a black and white check necktie tied in a 
bow — rather wide trousers of dark grey, and clumsy- 
looking shoes which succeeded in_ making a very neat 
foot look broad, flat, and ugly. In short, it was easy 


14 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


to see that he took little thought about his personal 
appearance. Indeed, he considered 'that if a man’s 
face were closely shaved, and his linen spotless, it 
mattered little his coat being somewhat worn, or his 
trousers rather baggy at the knees. Though his hands 
were small and his fingers long and tapering, they 
were particularly muscular. He wore no rings or other 
jewellery. 

His father. General Macleod, had won some renown 
in the Crimea, and been rewarded with the title of 
K.C.B., a distinction which in his estimation added 
little to the honour of his name and lineage — a lineage 
in which every link was authenticated by the family 
muniments, and which carried him back to Robert the 
Bruce in a direct line. But though the General’s pedi- 
gree was in so satisfactory a condition, his estate was 
much encumbered, and he had felt the inconvenience of 
poverty — not of that poverty which makes a man 
realise the beauty of the familiar prayer, “ Give us this 
day our daily bread,” but the poverty which, as some 
one has said, sends its sons to Harrow and Cambridge 
instead of to Eton and the Guards. So it hap- 
pened with Sir Hugh Macleod’s eldest son. He had 
gone to Harrow, and afterwards had obtained a com- 
mission in the “ Black Watch,” but when it came to 
educating his second son Ronald, who was considerably 
younger, the old General had been obliged to send him 
to some less expensive school, and, notwithstanding his 
old-fashioned prejudice that the army, the navy, and 
the church were the only professions fit for a gentle- 
man, he had reluctantly accepted the offer of a brother 
officer to place his boy in the office of Messrs. Thompson 
and Haroldson, the well-known agents in the City. 
Ronald Macleod, who had imbibed some of his father’s 
ideas, had at first looked down with no small degree of 
contempt upon his profession, but the ceaseless chaff to 
which his fellow clerks had subjected him had 
taught him to modify his opinions, especially when 
he found that several of the men with whom he was 
brought into hourly contact were perfectly gentleman- 
like in their manners, and that some of them were 
actually possessed of grandfathers. Thus by the 
time he had attained his twentieth year he had made 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


15 


tip his mind to make the best of the position into 
which circumstances had thrown him ; and when, a 
few months Uter, his father died, he had realised what 
small fortune the old General had been able to leave 
him, and had deposited the money with the senior 
partner of his house, and told him that he had now 
given up his dream of looking out for “ something 
better,” and would be very glad if his money could 
be invested in the business. 

Mr. Thompson, who had heard how Ronald used 
always to tell his companions that he had only 
accepted his clerkship in order to have “ something to 
do while he was looking about him,” smiled as he told 
him that at least three-fourths of the young men who 
came into the house looked upon it as a sort of tem- 
porary shelter, but that those who left it seldom did so 
of their own free will. “ I will ask my partners if they 
will permit you to lend them this money,” he added, 
“ and I have no doubt that they will accede to yout 
request ; and if you really settle down to your work, 
and make yourself useful, it is possible that fifteen or 
twenty years hence you may be taken into partner- 
ship.” 

From that moment Ronald Macleod had a pur- 
pose in life. The fifteen or twenty years’ probation, 
long as they seemed to a man of his age, did not 
frighten him. He was determined to work and become 
a partner in the house — not that such a consum- 
mation was the end of his hopes, on the contrary he 
only looked forward to it as a beginning to his career 
— as the means of getting money sufficient to enable 
him to stand for some borough — in the Conservative 
interest of course — for had not his ancestors been 
Cavaliers, Jacobites, Tories, from the beginning? 
“ And once in Parliament,” he used to think, “ who 
can tell ? ” and then his fancy would soar aloft with 
all the impetuosity of his twenty years. Hitherto hia 
object had been to get his work done as quickly aa 
possible. Henceforth he cared less for rapidity of exe- 
cution so long as it were done well, and though he took 
a fair share of the amusements and enjoyments which 
modern London offers to a man of his age, half-past 
nine in the morning found him seated at his desk with 


i6 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


his mind as steadily fixed on his work as if he had gone 
to bed at ten the night before, instead of having had 
only four or five hours’ sleep and a bath to fit him for 
the duties of the day. 

This steady application on his part was not the fancy 
of a moment, nor was it long before Mr. Thompson 
and his partners ^observed it. As vacancies occurred 
among the clerks he was promoted higher and higher 
till at length, on the ist of January, 1880, he was taken 
into the business as junior partner with a share of the 
profits, which amounted only to about a thousand a 
year at that time, but which promised on the revival 
of business to increase very rapidly and substantially. 

When on the 8th March, in the same year, Lord 
Beaconsfield astonished the country by his sudden 
dissolution of Parliament, Macleod, who had for some 
years past taken an active part in local politics, 
accepted the invitation of the Conservative Committee 
at Sandborough to come forward as their candidate, 
and, contrary to the advice of his partners, who recom- 
mended him to wait a few years longer, and with some 
misgivings as to how his election expenses could be 
met, he had taken up his quarters at the Blue Boar at 
Sandborough, and thrown himself heart and soul into 
the contest. 

His canvass had been eminently satisfactory, and a 
week before the polling day he reckoned pretty confi- 
dently on getting a majority of at least 1 50. But day 
by day, as the results of the elections were declared 
with the same monotonous account of victories won by 
the Liberals, he noticed a. change in the manner of 
many of his lukewarm supporters, and his heart had 
sunk within him as he reflected on the unreliableness 
of voters’ most solemn promises, and on the damage 
which he firmly believed would be done to British 
prestige if that “ mischievous maniac,” the “ People’s 
William,” were to be placed at the head of affairs. 

When the 7th of April arrived, the day fixed for the 
poll, Macleod had done all that man could do. From 
seven in the morning till the close of the poll, his 
carriage and pair had been seen driving backwards 
and forwards through the town, his wife and daughter 
(a fair-haired child of ten) dressed in blue from head to 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


17 


foot, with blue parasols, blue boots, blue gloves, even 
blue flowers, and, in the child’s case, turquoise earrings. 
The horses (changed three times during the day), the 
coachman, and footman, were decked out with blue 
bows innumerable. How Macleod could contrive to 
let his cigar out in time to stop and get a light at each 
tobacconist’s shop was scarcely less astonishing than 
the manner in which Mrs. Macleod’s glove-buttons 
required sewing on as the carriage passed any haber- 
dasher’s, or the rapidity with which the child disposed 
of the cakes and sweetmeats which were purchased for 
her at the three confectioners. But all this activity 
availed not, and Ronald was beaten. It was not with 
any idea of altering the total against him that he had 
asked to have the votes counted again, for he knew 
that the Mayor was an ardent Conservative, and that 
he must have scrutinised every opposition vote as closely 
as he could have done himself, but he felt that he 
wanted a few moments to pull himself together 
before he met the crowd of electors who were waiting 
outside ; and then, too, he felt what a disappointment 
it would be to his wife. She had helped him cordially 
in his canvass, and only that morning she had pre- 
dicted his success so confidently that he felt he would 
hate to let her hear the announcement of his defeat so 
publicly amidst the shouts of an unsympathetic crowd. 
He walked to the window and looked out. He could 
see the people waiting below — rather impatient now, as 
the announcement had been expected fully an hour 
before. There were his wife and daughter, too, in the 
carriage, just opposite the window. It was a cold 
morning, and the horses were walking up and down in 
front of the Town Hall, and he had to wait fully five 
minutes before his wife chanced to see him. She 
looked up with a glance so full of hope and triumph 
that he felt his own disappointment in the result of the 
election was nothing in comparison to what she would 
suffer. But there was no alternative ; she must learn 
the bad news sooner or later. As the carriage 
passed he looked at her earnestly, then shook 
his head, and held up three fingers. She under- 
stood him instaptly. For a moment her eyebrows 
became arched, and her mouth half opened ; and 

B 


HIS LAST PASSION* 


i8 

then all the colour left her cheeks, and she bit her lip. 
When the carriage was just beyond the thickest part of 
the crowd she stood up and told the coachman to drive 
to the hotel. But before she reached the door she 
thought that perhaps it would seem ungenerous to 
leave him alone at such a moment and she ordered the 
man to drive back again. Once more she passed the 
Town Hall, but as she looked up at the window where 
her husband had been standing a few minutes before 
she seemed to understand that, hard as would be the 
task which would fall upon him of addressing the 
electors, the fact of her being there would make it still 
harder for him. Then her eyes filled with tears and 
she drove to the Blue Boar, where she had everything 
ready for returning home. She wrote on a card : — 

“ My Dearest Ronald, — I can’t tell you how awfully 
sorry I am. Come home as soon as you can get away. 
My poor old fellow. 

“Your Loving Wifib.” 

Leaving this with the hotel keeper, she returned to 
town by the next train. 

In the meantime the Conservative agent had looked 
through the Liberal votes again, and, finding none to 
object to, he had signified to the Mayor that he must 
accept the defeat, which could not be avoided. 


CHAPTER II. 

ELECTION HUMOURS. 

Macleod walked across to his opponent and held out 
his hand, saying, “ I congratulate you, Mr. Pilsener. 
I fear the victory has fallen to the better orator, and 
not to the better cause.” 

Mr. Pilsener seemed somewhat surprised at this 
proceeding, but he put a soft fat hand into Macleod’s, 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


19 


and said, “ Thank you, Mr. Macleod ; thank you. We 
must all have our own opinions about that.” 

A sound of many voices from the expectant crowd 
was wafted in at the window. 

“ Let us go on to the balcony,” said the Mayor ; 
“ the people are getting impatient.” 

As the Mayor with the candidates and one or two 
privileged friends of each of them stepped out on the 
balcony, a confused murmur arose from the crowd below 
— a murmur which almost immediately gave way to a 
breathless hush of expectation, while hundreds of 
faces were turned inquiringly towards the balcony. 
Both candidates had so far mastered their emotions 
that the most careful observer was unable to guess 
which of them was victorious. The Mayor, who hated 
all ceremonies and always got through his business as 
quickly as he possibly could, at once rose to his feet, 
and, without any sort of prelude or introduction what- 
ever, merely said : 

“ The numbers recorded in the returns are : For Mr. 
Pilsener, 406 ; for Mr. Macleod, 403. The majority 
for Mr. Pilsener is therefore three votes, and accordingly 
I declare Mr. Samuel Jacob Pilsener to be duly elected 
and returned member of Parliament for the borough of 
Sandborough in the ensuing Parliament.” 

This announcement was greeted with immense cheer- 
ing, in which many a burgher who had given his vote 
in favour of the Conservative candidate joined lustily — 
not that he had thus suddenly altered his political 
opinions, but merely because enthusiasm is catching, 
and it is so pleasant to shout when a hundred other 
voices are keeping us in countenance. 

Mr. Pilsener then stood forward and bowed with a 
peculiarly oleaginous smile, his fat little hands threaten- 
ing to burst through the tight lavender kids into which 
he had managed to thrust them, as he placed the 
fingers of his right hand one by one in the palm of his 
left, and gave thern each a hearty squeeze of 'congratu- 
lation. As soon as the cheering with which he was 
greeted had subsided, he said : — 

“ Gentlemen, before I offer you my warmest and 
most grateful thanks for the unbounded distinction 
which you have just conferred upon me, I must obey 


20 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


the first impulse of my heart by congratulating you 
upon the glorious advance which you have this day 
made towards the ulterior triumphs of the human race. 
Yes, gentlemen, there is something far grander than 
the difference between Whig and Tory, Liberal and 
Conservative ; there is the glorious future ; your grand 
inheritance of intellectuality working in amicable co- 
ordination with honourable and admiration-compelling 
labour.” 

“ Is he drunk ? ” asked one of Mr. Pilsener’s chief 
supporters, in some alarm. 

“ Oh, no, it is all right,” answered another friend of 
the new member, “this doesn’t mean anything, and it 
will please the crowd, for it sounds well ; besides, he 
has sent a copy of his speech to the reporters and told 
them not to notice what he actually says, as that is the 
substance of what he is going to say, and as all the 
regular reporters of the chief journals are occupied 
elsewhere we can rely on his written version appearing 
in the papers.” 

Mr. Pilsener was right. This sort of thing did please 
the crowd, and he was greeted with tremendous cheer- 
ing directly he made a pause. 

No one understood what he was saying, but some 
thought they had missed out a word somewhere, 
and others were pleased that their new member should 
consider them worthy of such high-flown eloquence. 
On all sides the general approval found vent in such 
remarks as, “ Don’t he speak beautiful ? ” “I c’d lissen 
to ’im orl day, I could.” 

One or two electors did venture to ask what he was 
talking about, but they were admonished not to show 
their ignorance, or to pay more attention and not to 
interrupt. 

Mr. Pilsener made a few remarks disparaging to the 
late Conservative Government, a few vague promises 
of the important reforms to be enacted by the Liberals, 
and he interspersed these with several grandiloquent 
sentences as meaningless as the one with which he 
opened his speech. 

All this was poured out in a low, persuasive tone 
(which, nevertheless, reached the ears of the farthest 
listeners), with one hand thrust into his bosom, and the 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


21 


other now raised deprecatingly, and now swayed 
smoothly from side to side, except where his language 
soared above the range of common sense, and then he 
would raise both his hands and his eyes to heaven, 
while his voice would swell out for the moment like the 
note of some distant organ. 

“ A manner and a speech like that,” said the Mayor, 
bending down and speaking in a whisper to Macleod, 
“ is worth at least twenty or thirty votes with a suffrage 
so low as that now in existence.” 

When the new member for Sandborough had re- 
gained his seat, and Macleod had risen to his feet, 
several moments passed before he could obtain sufficient 
quiet to be heard. While he waited he looked around, 
and noted with satisfaction that his wife had left the 
place. He had prepared, in his mind, the outline of 
two speeches which he intended to deliver according to 
the result of the election. Still, as he began to speak, 
he found that he had completely forgotten them both, 
and therefore he said : — 

“Gentlemen, to those of you who have supported 
me I offer my sincerest thanks. If all the Conservatives 
in this borough had voted as honestly as you have the 
result would have been different to-day. To those 
Conservatives who have not done their best it will be 
a constant source of useless regret to remember that 
had they brought but four more votes to the poll every 
important division in the House of Commons would 
have counted two more in case of a majority for the 
Conservatives and two less in case our side should be 
in a minority.” “ As it always will,” called out a 
butcher, and then laughed so boisterously at his joke 
that several others joined in his laughter. 

“ I will not attempt to disguise from you,” Macleod 
continued, “ that in my defeat to-day I see the fall of 
one of my dearest personal ambitions. But, do not 
mistake' me, the failure of any personal hope falls into 
insignificance when I think of the evil days which some 
of you, and many voters in other constituencies, are 
thoughtlessly bringing upon England. So many elec- 
tions have now been decided, that I see, alas ! too 
clearly that the new Parliament will contain a majority, 
though I trust a small majority, of Liberal members.” 


22 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


Here the speaker was interrupted by a perfect tempest 
of cheers, hisses, and cries of “A large majority,** 
“ The Tories are out of it,” etc., etc. 

“ And do you know,” continued Macleod, his voice 
ringing out loud and clear above the tumult, “ what a 
Liberal majority means ? It means Mr. Gladstone as 
Prime Minister.” 

Derisive cheers again drowned Macleod’s words. 
One voice cried out, “ And a good Prime Minister, 
too ” ; but the greater number of the people yelled out 
that “ it is nonsense,” that “ Mr. Gladstone has 
given up the business,” “ Gladstone don’t want hoffice.” 

When a certain degree of order was restored, Macleod 
went on — 

“ Mark my words,” said he, “ I know enough of Mr. 
Gladstone to tell you that he will be at the head of 
affairs or nowhere, and that if once he holds the 
destinies of this empire in his hand, from that moment 
‘ security of property ’ and ‘ British prestige ’ will be 
meaningless words.” 

Amidst a storm of cheers and hisses he sat down. 
The blood rushed to his temples, his hands felt clammy 
and his feet cold. His part in the battle was over. For 
a few minutes he was conscious of the confused noise 
of the crowd below. Then some one addressed the 
people — he did not notice who — and after that he mecha- 
nically rose to his feet and with the rest of the party 
left the balcony. A minute or two later he heard the 
cheers which greeted Mr. Pilsener as he drove off. The 
crowd still lingered outside. Rough jests were inter- 
changed, and a good deal of laughter was heard ; all 
seemed good humour and satisfaction. 

“ I am sorry for Macleod,” said a hairdresser, “ I 
thought he made a very manly, straightforward 
speech.” 

“ Yes,” answered a fishmonger, “mebbe so, but there 
haint much of hedication about *im ; now, Pilsener, 
yer know, ’e’s a scollard, ez hanyone kin see with 
’arf a heye ; wy, as fur wot Mikleeod sed, me or you 
might a sed it jest as well. I don’t care tuppence fur 
Conservative or Liberal, I don’t. What I likes fur a 
member o’ Parlyment is a man wot kin speak horti- 
graphicul.” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 2 $ 

This harangue was very well received by the by- 
standers. 

“ Well,” said the hairdresser, somewhat disdainfully, 
“ I don’t care for ‘ hortigraphicul speaking’ so much as 
for principles.” 

“ And I s’pose that’s wot you voted fur,” said the 
fishmonger, rather nettled by the manner of the hair- 
dresser, and a little soured in his temper by the large 
quantities of beer which had, in some mysterious 
manner, been distributed with singular generosity at 
every public-house in the borough during the last few 
days. 

“ I voted for Macleod, and I ain’t ashamed to own it,” 
answered the hairdresser, with some dignity. 

“ Did yer?” retorted the fishmonger, suddenly firing 
up, “ then take that,” and he thrust his fist into the 
hairdresser’s eye. 

The hairdresser did not feel equal to the task of 
punishing his antagonist, so he simply walked off, with 
his hand to his eye, amidst the jeers of some of the 
bystanders. But he was not a man to bear this 
indignity tamely. Besides, his eye smarted. So when, 
a minute later, he noticed a little man with a yellow 
riband in his button-hole, he went up and asked him 
what he thought of the result. 

“ Glorious, ain’t it ? ” chuckled the little man. 

“ Oh, you think so ? ” and the hairdresser passed on 
the affront which he had just received with interest. 

Several of the crowd thought this joke which the 
fishmonger had originated so exceedingly telling and 
funny that it had quite a success for a few minutes 
until some people beginning to find it monotonous, it was 
laid aside and a sort of free fight ensued, in which the 
combatants were not very particular as to whom they 
hit so long as they hit some one. The Mayor, who was 
just leaving the Town Hall, despatched a messenger to 
the police station, but in a few minutes the fight ended 
as suddenly as it had begun, and the crowd quietly dis- 
persed. A few minutes later Ronald Macleod crossed 
the open place in front of the Town Hall and entered 
his chief committee room. 

It was a large room with a dirty uncarpeted floor, 
a long table reaching from one end to the other was 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


«4 

covered with inkstands, quill pens, and heaps of 
addresses and political tracts issued by diferent 
influential Conservatives. There was only one chair 
in the room, but benches were placed along each side 
of the table and round the walls. The only attempt at 
ornamentation in the place consisted of several framed 
hunting prints, which, however, were now covered over 
by lists of the various committees wafered to the 
glass. 

On the walls, which had once been pink, but were 
so stained and dirty that they had assumed a nameless 
colour, were pinned several large posters printed in 
blue capitals, and telling the electors to ‘‘ poll early,” 
to “vote for Macleod,” and to “mark your voting 
paper thus,” with a diagram initiating intelligent voters 
into the mysteries of making a cross opposite the right 
candidate’s name — mysteries which might be imagined 
to require no explanation did not actual experience 
teach us that five or six per cent, of the voters who 
are qualified to have a voice in deciding as to whether 
England should or should not go to war for some 
specific reason, are at the same time unable to make a 
cross in a particular space provided for the purpose. 

In smaller type were to be found telling extracts 
from newspapers, showing what had been done by the 
Conservatives, or proving that Lord Beaconsfield’s 
finance had been infinitely more advantageous to 
English taxpayers than Mr. Gladstone’s. Then there 
were pictures, too, if the political squibs of the day 
could be dignified by such a name. Cartoons from the 
comic papers were exhibited, in which the leaders of 
the two great parties were each represented with 
particularly square noses, small eyes, and in impossible 
attitudes, but where the initiated might distinguish 
Lord Beaconsfield by the protrusion of the under lip, 
the tuft on the chin, and the curl on the forehead, and 
Mr. Gladstone might be recognised by the sparse hairs 
on the head and with more certainty by the axe which 
he held in his hand. 

There were also one or two caricatures from Scot- 
land, in which Lord Rosebery was an important figure, 
either as a little dog or as a Highland lad — squibs 
which contained little wit in themselves, but to which 


^5 


HIS LASjr PASSION. 

Mr. Gladstone was weak enough to lend some import- 
ance by publicly showing his annoyance at them. 
Then there was a brightly-coloured “ serio-comic 
map,” a caricature which preserved the contour of the 
British Isles, and prophesied, with a want of foresight 
which was perhaps pardonable at the time, the 
triumph of Lord Beaconsfield (curl on forehead, tuft 
on chin, and earl’s coronet and robes this time to make 
quite sure) over Lord Hartington and Mr. Gladstone — 
figures which, having found it impossible to keep 
strictly to the outline of the surrounding coast line, 
had renounced all likeness to the human form rather 
than abandon the attempt. 

The only person in the room was an old man of 
almost seventy, who was sitting on the solitary chair at 
the end of the table with a curiously furrowed and 
trouble-worn face buried in his hands. As soon as he 
heard Macleod’s step on the floor he started up respect- 
fully and came forward to greet him. 

“ I am so sorry, sir, oh, so sorry,” he said in a 
broken voice, while the tears chased one another down 
his cheeks. 

“ Come, cheer up, Mr. Terbage,” said Macleod, 
pressing the old man’s hand kindly, we are beaten, it 
is true, but we must make the best of it.” 

“ Yes, sir, but it is so hard : you have lost a seat in 
Parliament, sir, but you are young and can wait a few 
years, and then most likely attain to your ambition ; 
but I am too old. I was a prosperous man once, sir, 
and might have had a son in Parliament, but the com- 
mercial crisis of 1866 left me penniless, and my son, 
who had just entered into partnership with me, never 
seemed to get on afterwards. He and his wife both 
died in a few years — died, sir, in absolute want of all 
the necessaries of life, and left a boy to my charge. I 
make a few shillings by copying work, but I am old and 
broken down now. I had so counted on your getting 
in, sir — and then as I worked hard for you, I thought 
you could not refuse to get my grandson appointed 
messenger in some Government office, so that he might 
have been safe for something for the rest of his life ; 
but all my hopes are gone now, sir,” and the poor old 
fellow sobbed aloud. 


26 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


“ Are you a voter ? ” asked Macleod. 

“No, sir.” 

“ Thank God for that,” said Macleod, “ then I can’t 
be called in question for bribery ; ” and he thrust a 
couple of sovereigns into the old clerk’s hand, and 
made a memorandum in his pocket-book as to Mr. 
Terbage’s address, and his ambition with regard to his 
grandson. 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Terbage, a little cheered 
by the certainty that for a month his grandson could 
have enough to eat now. “ Talking of bribery, sir, I 
had almost forgot to tell you that Mr. Pilsener gave my 
landlord a sovereign with his own hand when he was 
canvassing, and said it was for an old teapot which he 
had a fancy to put in his collection of old china, when 
I knew all the time the pot wasn’t ten years old, and 
had cost about three shillings.” 

At this moment a tall gentleman-like looking man 
burst into the room, calling out cheerfully, “ Never 
mind, Macleod, it is almost a win.” 

“ Stop a minute, Stewart, here is Mr. Terbage with 
information for you which may make it quite a win.” 

Mr. Terbage and Mr. Stewart talked together for a 
few minutes, and then the latter exclaimed : “ We may 
not be able to give you the seat, Macleod, but if we 

don’t turn that d smooth-tongued Israelite out of 

it I’ll be hanged if I ever act as an election agent again. 
Come and have lunch now ; you must want it.” 

As soon as luncheon was over Macleod took leave of 
some of his chief supporters, who accompanied him to 
the station. He was wrapped in deep thought all the 
way up to town, and was only awakened from his 
reverie by hearing the porters calling, “Victoria! 
Victoria 1 ” As he stepped on to the platform, a hand- 
some young fellow of about seven-and-twenty, dressed 
in an admirably-fitting “ Melton ” coat, buttoning up 
so high as almost to conceal a pale, drab tie and gold 
horseshoe pin, and trousers so tight that they seemed 
to have been painted on to him, rushed forward and 
grasped his hand warmly. 

“ What, you here, Charlie ? ” 

“Yes, and I hear what the porters are calling out, 
/Victoria.’ I hope it is a good omen. Shall I give 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


27 


three cheers ? ” and Charlie Fausterlr/gh took off a 
very glossy hat with his left hand, in wnich he already 
held an ebony and silver-mounted crutch-stick. 

“ No,” said Macleod, quietly ; “ it is ‘ defeat.’ ” 

“Well, I’m d ,” muttered Fausterleigh, and 

his face fell as naturally as if he had not heard of his 
friend’s defeat before. 

But he had. 


CHAPTER III. 

A DINNER. 

When Macleod reached his home his wife came into 
the hall to meet him. 

“Poor old Ronald ’’was all she said, and she put 
her hands on his shoulders and held up her face to 
him to kiss. 

They walked into his study, where he flung himself 
on a sofa. She sat down in an arm-chair beside 
him. She was a fair little woman, with glistening 
golden hair, blue eyes which looked cold and 
almost gray in the dull daylight of the gloomy 
study, but which deepened into dark violet beneath 
the softening rays of a well-lighted ball-room or dinner- 
table. Her cheeks, upon which, perhaps, too many 
roses bloomed, told plainly that Mrs. Macleod had not 
changed her nationality when she changed her name. 
Her nose, though rather small, was well shaped, and 
her whole face would have been pretty and doll-like 
but for a certain disdainful curl of the upper lip and a 
massiveness of the under jaw, which made her admirers 
feel that it might not be quite safe to treat her alto- 
gether as a plaything, and which^ it must be owned, 
rather marred what would otherwise have been a most 
charming little face. 

Added to this her teeth, which were as regular as it 
they had been made by machinery, were of a tint to 


28 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


awaken the admiration of a dentist rather than of an 
amateur of beauty. Her figure, though very small, was 
so nearly perfect that she and her husband might be 
excused for thinking it absolutely so, especially now 
that a skilful dressmaker and the modern style of 
dress combined to show it off to the best advantage. 
She was on the point of attaining her thirty- second 
birthday, but the extreme slightness of her figure and 
the fairness of her complexion would have enabled her 
to pass very well for three or four and twenty, if she 
had kept her two children, a boy of fourteen and a girl 
of ten, out of the way. 

“You know,” she said, stretching out a very neat 
little kid shoe from beneath her dress and examining 
carefully the three little rosettes that ornamented the 
curve of her instep, “ that Mrs. Heathermount asked 
us to dinner for to-night, and I thought that it might be 
less dull than staying at home ; so, as she said we 
might leave it an open question, under the circum- 
stances, I sent round, about an hour ago, to say we 
would come.” 

“ I am sorry you did. I shall hate it,” said Macleod, 
taking up a newspaper that lay beside him. 

“Oh, very well; we needn’t go. I’ll send round 
again, and say you are so tired.” 

“ No, no, don’t do that, I don’t want to look as if I 
couldn’t stand a beating — we must go now.” 

And a few hours later, Mr. and Mrs. Macleod were 
shown into Mrs. Heathercnount’s drawing-room. As 
she came forward to receive them she took no notice of 
his defeat, but a particularly warm pressure of the 
hand and a certain air of sorrow which she lent to the 
smile with which she greeted him, as she said, “ It is 
so kind of you to come ” seemed to add “ after your 
disappointment,” as plainly as if she had said the 
words. 

The Macleods were rather late. Already an uncom- 
fortable group of four or five men had formed itself in 
front of the fireplace, and conversed gravely upon topics 
which the constant expectation that dinner would be 
announced deprived of all interest. On one side of the 
room a man^ bent over a lady seated on a particu- 
larly low chair, and, in spite of the distance which such 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


29 


a position placed between them, contrived to impart to 
his remark that “ the drive has been empty to-day” as 
much mystery as if he were making an assignation. 
Here two ladies, who had never seen each other before, 
and probably would never meet again, were pretending 
to take an engrossing interest in th6 fact that the eldest 
child of the one had had the measles last year, whereas 
the other one’s family had hitherto escaped that disease. 
There a young man had been bold enough to sit down 
next to Mrs. Heathermount’s daughter, but he took 
care to show by his constrained position that he was 
half afraid of his boldness. Mrs. Heathermount was 
walking from one guest to another, apologizing for the 
unusual length of the mauvais quart d'heurt, 

“ Yousee,”she said, “ the elections make peopleso un- 
certain to-night, and I don’t know whether Sir Algernon 
Atherley can be here.” At this moment the expected 
guests were announced. The husband was a gray but 
sensual looking man of about fifty-five, with deeply 
lined features and a forbidding aspect, a tall upright 
figure, and an expression which one might expect on 
the face of a man who had just tasted something very 
bitter. His wife, on coming into the room, impressed 
one at once as being handsome, voluptuous looking, 
but, above all things, grande dame. 

“ A thousand pardons, my dear Mrs. Heathermount,” 
said Sir Algernon, in a voice which was meant to be 
exceedingly gracious, “but you know how busy we 
public men are, just now” ; and he pulled himself up 
with a certain satisfaction as the expression, “we 
public men,” made some of the guests look round at 
him. The business of “we public men,” in this 
instance, was rather chimerical, as the lateness of the 
Atherleys’ arrival had really been caused by Lady 
Atherley finding out at a late hour that the trimming 
of her dress was not quite to her taste, and conse- 
quently it had had to be altered at the last moment 
Mrs. Heathermount hastily told the gentlemen whom 
they were to take down, and she had not quite finished 
her somewhat puzzling task when a gorgeous footman 
in blue and gold livery with powdered hair, like some good 
fairy, changed the growing impatience into general satis- 
faction by the magic words, “ Dinner is served, madam.” 


30 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


As Mrs. Heathermount had long been a widow, 
a cousin of hers, a General Pelham, who had 
seen a fair share of active service since he first 
faced the foe and won the commendation of his 
colonel in the Afghan War of 1840, led the way with 
Lady Boyndale, a fine-looking old lady of whom it had 
been said in some satirical journal of fifty years ago 
that she was the vanquisher of the hero of Waterloo — a 
remark which she accepted half as a compliment and 
half as an insult. 

Count de Boisvillion followed with Lady Atherley, 
then, after some other guests. Major Powell with Mrs. 
Macleod, and the procession was concluded by Macleod 
and Miss Heathermount and Sir Algernon Atherley 
with the hostess. As the party defiled into the room 
and gradually found out its appointed order by the 
help of the little cardboard dishes bearing the guests* 
names, a smile of satisfaction passed over every 
countenance. Grace was hurriedly muttered, and then, 
amidst the rustling of silks, the crack, crack of the 
ladies’ corsages, a mixture of sounds dominated by the 
high note of some fork or spoon being swept against a 
wine glass, the company sat down. 

In the discreet and cosy half-light of the surrounding 
room the table shone out very brightly beneath the 
lustre of twenty wax-lights, supported by a handsome, 
though perhaps too massive, silver candelabrum, which 
represented a caravan being attacked by Arabs beneath 
a palm tree, a centre-piece which was supported at the 
distance of a few feet by two figures of Arab horsemen 
galloping furiously towards it, their bodies bent for- 
ward as if in the act of throwing their long spears, 
while in their left hands they held aloft smaller 
candelabra, with six lights each. Between each of 
these figures and the centre group were placed various 
dishes of silver and crystal containing the dessert- 
dishes so arranged that the sombre brOwns of the nuts, 
the lychees, and guava jelly were relieved by the 
brighter tints of the crimson American apples, the 
golden oranges, and the paler bananas, while the 
variegated tones of the candied fruits, bon-bons, and 
flowers seemed to blend the various hues of this mass 
of colour into one harmonious whole. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


31 


Round the table the thousand lights which sparkled 
from the quaintly-chiselled spoons and forks were 
reflected and multiplied in the pure uncut glasses, 
while between each two guests the light poured in 
blood-red stains through the ruby claret glasses on to 
the dazzling whiteness of the cloth, and the crimson 
fringes surrounding the white satin menus, which in 
the form of banners were suspended opposite each 
guest from a little gilt staff rising out of a small 
dish of natural flowers, completed the border of 
colour which bounded the broad white mass of the 
table cloth. 

The perfume of the flowers and fruits, the scents 
used by the ladies, the rose-water which stood in the 
finger glasses on the dinner waggon, all mingled to- 
gether in one delicious odour, not marred as yet by the 
soups which were just being handed round. Those 
parts of the room not immediately close to the table 
were cast into a comfortable shadow, except where 
some large silver cups and salvers lighted up the heavy 
carved-oak sideboard behind General Pelham and Lady 
Boyndale. For the first few minutes it seemed as 
though the conversation would be general, for Mr. 
Smithson, a stout red- faced man in a white waistcoat, 
who looked like a millionaire and who might almost 
claim to be one literally, announced to General Pelham 
in a rather loud tone that he considered that we were 
on the eve of entering upon a period of at least eight 
or ten years of peace and prosperity. 

Mr. Smithson was known to be so exceedingly 
fortunate in every speculation into which he had 
entered during the last few years that he was looked 
upon with groat veneration for his Midas-like qualities, 
and a certain vulgarity of manner was tolerated in him 
which would have been bitterly condemned and 
satirized in any less fortunate man. Such an 
announcement was accordingly listened to with 
eagerness. 

“ I suppose you hardly mean that, if the result of the 
General Election proves as unfortunate as it at present 
promises to be,” said Sir .Algernon Atherley, shaking 
his head. 

“ What the elections may turn out don’t matter a 


32 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


Straw. A good time is coming, and come it will 
anyhow. That’s my belief.” 

“ Then I suppose,” said Mr. Arbuthnot, a handsome 
but somewhat dissipated-looking young barrister, leaning 
across a pretty little woman with sparkling black eyes and 
plump cheeks, “ that we shall have increased railway 
traffic soon ? ” 

“ Ha, ha,” chuckled Smithson, “ I see what you 
want, you want to get a tip out of me. Well, well, I’ll 
give you one. I don’t want to keep everything to 
myself ; besides, the tip I can give you now is a big 
affair. There is room for everyone. If you ask me 
what to buy, I should say ” 

All this time he had been emphasizing his words 
with his spoon, which he held out towards Mr. 
Arbuthnot, greatly to the annoyance of Mrs. Powell, 
the lady who sat between them, for she noticed that he 
had begun eating his soup, and she had no wish to see 
her delicate cream-coloured dress stained. Here the 
millionaire, who noticed that other people had finished 
their soup, took two or three spoonfuls very rapidly, 
while Mrs. Heathermount, feeling a little shocked at 
her guest, looked round the table, with a shrug of the 
shoulders, which seemed to say, “ We must make the 
best of him.” 

“ What I sj^ould recommend you to buy,” continued 
Mr. Smithson, who had hurriedly finished his soup, “ is 
whatever you fancy.” There was a look of general 
disgust on everyone’s face; to be vulgar was bad 
enough, but to make game of people in this way was 
insuferable. “ What I mean,” he continued, regard- 
less of the general disappointment,* “ is that whatever 
you buy, from Consols to Turks, or mining shares, will 
turn out well, only, of course, you mustn’t touch the 
hundreds of new companies which will be floated within 
the next few months.” 

The unrefined tone which the monied man had given 
to the conversation caused it to die out at once. Mac- 
leod looked at his two neighbours. Miss Heathermount, 
who sat on his left, was speaking to her uncle. General 
Pelham, next to whom she was seated. 

Count de Boisvillon, a handsome man with black 
eyes, white teeth, and grey hair — a grey ness scarcely 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


33 


yet beginning to show itself in his moustache or eye- 
brows — had settled himself down to talk to Lady 
Atherley with that satisfied air which was the natural 
result of a certainty that he was about to enjoy a good 
dinner, and the probability that he would be well 
appreciated by a very charming woman. He had 
known her a couple of winters ago in Rome, and the 
great admiration which he had then shown for her had 
been very well received. In fact, when she had left 
Italy he imagined himself so thoroughly in her good 
graces that he was very nearly following her to England 
to complete his conquest, but other attractions had 
intervened, and so it happened that he had not seen 
her again till a week or two previously when he had 
come to London, and lost no time in availing himself of 
the invitation to call upon her which she had given 
him two years before. 

Mrs. Heathermount, who had been calling at the 
same time, had asked him to join her party for the 8th. 

Lady Atherley turned her head — for a moment her 
eyes met Macleod’s. “ What a grand woman,” he 
thought. She liked something about him, and said, “ I 
hear you have been defeated at Sandborough : I am so 
sorry.” 

One reason why Macleod had not liked going out to 
dinner that night was that he dreaded the con- 
dolences which he feared would be poured upon him. 
Hitherto, everyone had had the tact to refrain 
from alluding to his misfortune, and now a perfect 
stranger, a woman to whom he had not been even intro- 
duced, was the first to touch upon the subject. But 
there was something so sympathetic in the deep rich 
tones of her voice, that he felt no embarrassment at her 
remark. On the contrary, he felt thankful to her for her 
sympathy, though he presumed that the sympathy was 
given entirely to the cause which he represented, and 
not in any way to himself individually. 

Lady Atherley was a woman who would have at- 
tracted attention in any room. There was no single 
feature in her face which could be called perfect in 
itself ; and yet there was a certain indefinable charm 
about the face which made nine men out of ten fancy 
at first sight that she was a beauty. Her complexion 


34 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


was rather too pale, and made a strong contrast to the 
rich, ruddy brown of her hair. Her lips, though not 
very full, were dewy and luscious; her teeth pearly 
and regular; her eyes, of a dark but cold gray, were 
fringed with long, dark lashes, which lent them a look 
of softness which they did not really possess. Her 
figure was tall, but not quite stately, for the fulness of 
the bust. Hers was an autumnal beauty, such as age 
sometimes gives to certain women whose face of thirty 
years old one would like to see again, a beauty which 
makes one think of the youth that they have never 
had. 

The defeat of the Conservatives had come as a great 
blow to her. During the last two sessions Sir Algernon 
had made his name conspicuous in almost every 
important debate by the good service which he had 
rendered to the Ministry, and it was well understood 
among the influential members of the party that at the 
first opportunity a place would be found for him in the 
Cabinet. Such an opportunity would probably have 
occurred after the elections if Lord Beaconsfield had 
returned to power, and Sir Algernon had even been 
sounded as to whether he would accept a subordinate 
post en attendant. Being still a comparatively young 
man in the parliamentary sense, he had listened to the 
overtures which had been made to him, and his wife 
was already planning how she was to establish a salon 
which should rival that of the late Lady Waldegrave 
as soon as she should have the additional weight which 
her husband’s seat in the Cabinet would give her. 

But now that the Conservative majority was melting 
away like snow before a southerly wind, she felt that it 
^ might be years before her dream was realised, and no. 
' woman of thirty-two can bear to think of postponing for 
an indefinite time any plan in the success of which her 
own personal attractions are to count for a great deal. 
Macleod was right, then, in thinking that Lady Ather- 
ley’s sympathy was meant for the Conservative cause — 
or rather, for the benefits which the success of that 
cause was to confer upon the country generally, and 
upon herself in particular. But some small portion of 
her sympathy was given to him for his own sake. She 
was a woman of rapid likes and dislikes. She had 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


35 


noticed him as she came into the drawing-room, and 
singled him' out as the nicest-looking man there ; and 
when she had seen in the look he had just given her 
the undoubted admiration which he had been unable 
to conceal, she had felt attracted towards him at 
once. 

“ It is annoying, isn’t it ? ” he answered, “ and what 
is doubly vexing to me is the thought that possibly by 
some little extra exertion, I might have won three or 
four more votes if I had suspected that so small a 
number would have made the difference.” 

“ But I heard that you showed the most extraordi- 
nary energy, and, indeed, considering the wave of 
Radicalism which seems suddenly to be sweeping over 
the country, I think you may consider that you really 
gained a victory.” 

The ice was broken between them, and the conversa- 
tion flowed on freely until Macleod was surprised to 
find himself dilating on what he was to have done if 
he had got into Parliament, and a little later Lady 
Atherley was still more surprised to think that she was 
explaining to him all her ambitions about the political 
salon ^ a subject of which she had never yet spoken to 
anyone save her most intimate friends. The dinner 
was getting on, the second entree was being handed 
round. De Boisvillon had tried in vain to find an 
opportunity of reminding Lady Atherley of their 
pleasant days at Rome, but she could not remember 
some incident which he mentioned to her, and while he 
paused for a moment to think of some circumstance 
which would recall it to her memory, she had turned 
awa)^ and plunged deeper than ever into the conversa- 
tion with Macleod. 

For a few minutes he had been deeply offended, and 
relapsed into silence, venting his pique upon the dishes 
which were handed to him, letting none pass him. 
Then he had tried to begin a conversation with Mrs. 
Macleod, but she was listening to a description of a 
wonderful run with the Pytchley from Major Powell, 
who, being as enthusiastic as herself about hunting, 
was treating her to all the tit-bits of his hunting 
reminiscences, and enjoying his dinner immensely, and 
therefore the Count had to turn once more to the dis- 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


36 

cussion of the various good things which were put 
before him. 

Miss Heathermount was enjoying the scene. She 
was not at all hurt at the neglect of her partner, for, 
like her mother, she loved the Conservative cause with 
all her heart, although neither of these ladies had any 
personal, or, rather, individual benefit to expect from 
it, and she thought that the objects of the cause might 
be much better furthered by a friendship springing up 
between the Atherleys and Mr. Macleod than by any 
conversation which she could hold with him. 

Captain Ruffhed, a retired naval captain, was talking 
in rather a loud tone about the immense capital which 
some of the Liberals had been able to make out of 
the agitation against co-operative stores. “I’ll tell 
you how my brother got over that question,” he said ; 
“ a wine merchant had got up at one of his last 
meetings and asked him if he had ever dealt at 
the stores, and whether he would pledge himself never 
to deal there any more. * Yes,’ he answered, ‘ I have 
dealt there, and I won’t pledge myself not to deal there 
again, for once a very tiresome old aunt of mine 
came to stay with me, and I couldn’t get rid of her. 
She wouldn’t go. It was no use giving her hints. 
But at last I thought of a plan. I bought half-a- 
dozen of golden sherry at the stores, and I wouldn’t 
put any other wine on the table. She held out 
valiantly at first, and I began to despair, but the day I 
opened the fourth bottle she asked me if I had much 
more of that wine in my cellar. I told her there was 
about a pipe of it. She turned pale. The next 
day she left, and has not come back since. Under 
these circumstances I cannot pledge myself not to deal 
at the stores.’ The wine merchant was satisfied.” 
And Captain Ruffhed laughed with all his might at his 
brother’s wit. 

Mrs. Pelham, to whom he ostensibly addressed this 
story, though it was meant for the whole table, smiled 
faintly, but Lady Boyndale turned to Mr. Arbuthnot 
and said she thought it very bad taste for a man to 
make fun of any lady, and worse still of a 1 elation, for 
the amusement of an election mob. 

But now the conversation between Lady Atherley 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


37 


and Macleod had fallen into more intimate topics. 
They were discussing the happiness or unhappiness of 
married life ; their personal feelings on those and 
similar subjects. So interested had they become 
that several times a footman had been obliged to stand 
gravely beside them with some dish in his hand for 
several seconds before he could attract their attention 
sufficiently to induce them to say whether they would 
take some of it or not ; and they had ceased to exercise 
any choice in the matter, but said “ Yes ” or “No ” by 
chance, and of some dishes they had received they sent 
the viands away untasted. They were speaking in a low 
tone with their faces very close together ; the other 
guests at the table scarcely existed for them any longer ; 
they heard not a word of Captain Ruffhed’s election 
anecdotes ; only now and then, when the powdered hair 
and expressionless face of some footman came between 
them, did they realise for a moment that they were not 
alone. 

Lady Atherley spoke once or twice of the heat of 
the room, and a slight flush suffused her face. Even 
the marble whiteness of her bosom, where it contrasted 
with the black lace of her dress and the two crimson 
roses nestling down upon it, had assumed a delicate 
tinge of pink. Macleod did not notice the heat. He 
felt warm with that comfortable warmth which comes 
of a good dinner and several glasses of excellent cham- 
pagne, but the presence of Lady Atherley troubled his 
senses strangely. - Her eyes looking so closely into his, 
her breath upon his cheek, the rich low tones of 
her voice falling so softly on his ear, the near 
proximity of her well-developed figure in the full bloom 
of maturing womanhood — all contributed to weave a 
kind of spell over him which made his breath come 
shorter and spread a delightful languor over his senses. 
The dessert was being handed round. Macleod saw 
that the moment was drawing near when the ladies 
would rise from the table. Mr. Smithson had cracked a 
number of nuts, and was taking them out of their shells. 
Mrs. Arbuthnot, who was in a condition of prospective 
motherhood, had turned very white, and kept her eyes 
anxiously on Mrs. Heathermount ; while, at the other 
end of the table, Mr. Arbuthnot was holding a. banana 


38 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


in his right hand, while his left was under the table 
squeezing Mrs. Powell’s fingers. General Pelham was 
dozing with his eyes half shut, while Lady Boyndale 
was telling him a long story about the late Duke of 
Wellington. 

“ I am so sorry to think the evening will be so soon 
over,” said Macleod, “ and perhaps we may not meet 
again. I wish I could ask you to call on us.” 

“ Of course I will,” said Lady Atherley, “ I can 
speak to Mrs. Macleod upstairs and arrange it.” 

“No, you mustn’t do that. Since I have asked you 
to call like this you must promise not to arrange it in 
this way, but to wait a few days and then call if you like. 
And now, to save you the trouble of asking Mrs. Heather- 
mount about us, I will tell you who we are. We are poor 
— I mean really poor. We do not keep any carriage 
except a brougham, and I don’t know how my election 
expenses are to be paid unless my partners will pay them 
for me and let me work the debt off. I am just admitted 
junior partner in the house of Thompson and Haroldson, 
and I am the first of my family for four generations who 
has followed any profession but the army. We have 
not many friends, but you would never meet anybody 
in our house whom you would be ashamed to see in 
your own. And now, if you think that is all right, and 
you don’t happen to forget it, come and call in a week 
or two.” 

“ What a strange boy you are,” said Lady Atherley, 
“ of course I shall come.” 

“ I wish I were a boy,” said Macleod, “ but I am 
thirty- five, hien sonne'' 

“ I think a man, like a woman, is of the age which 
he appears to be. So you may be twenty-five if you 
like.” 

“ Thanks for saying so. And now, may I speak to you 
again when we come upstairs ?” 

“ Why, of course.” 

Lady Atherley was not accustomed to be asked such 
a question, for the men who sat next to her at a dinner 
were almost always sure to come up and finish their 
conversation in the drawing-room. She liked the 
deference which the request implied. 

Mrs. Heathermount had succeeded in catching Lady 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


39 


Boyndale’s eye, and much to the relief of Mrs. Arbuth- 
not, who was feeling very faint, the ladies rose and 
retired to the drawing-room. As soon as the door closed 
behind them, the gentlemen rose and stretched their legs, 
then settled themselves to the table again with that air 
of relief which men always seem to assume at such a 
moment, even when the ladies with whom they have 
been conversing are of the most agreeable. 

General Pelham who had roused himself on the 
departure of the ladies, walked to the top of the table 
and sat down by Sir Algernon, with whom he com- 
menced a conversation on the advisability of keeping 
garrisons permanently at Cabul and Candahar — a 
proposition which Major Powell (who had been a con- 
sistent Liberal all his life, though, he said, he couldn’t 
stand Gladstone any longer) considered to be a most 
absurd and dangerous one. 

Mr. Arbuthnot had drawn his chair a little closer to 
Mr. Smithson’s, and was entertaining that gentleman 
and Captain Ruffhed with some of the details of a 
celebrated divorce case upon which he had been 
engaged as junior counsel — details which even the least 
modest of the weekly newspapers had been afraid to 
publish. 

Count de Boisvillon was giving occasional aid to his 
neighbour. Major Powell, in the debate against General 
Pelham and Sir Algernon, while Macleod, who'alone 
had not moved his chair, sat somewhat apart and 
sipped his claret gravely, as he thought over his 
charming new acquaintance. Gradually Major Powell 
and General Pelham had been getting more excited, 
and soon every one at the table was taking the side of 
one or the other. Count de Boisvillon, with his left 
elbow and forearm on the table, was ticking off the 
points of his argument with the forefinger of his right 
hand upon the palm of his left. He had just brought 
forward a strong reason for abandoning every part of 
Afghan territory, and was waiting for a reply, which 
neither Sir Algernon nor General Pelham seemed able , 
to give. 

Macleod here broke in with an argument which dis- 
pelled the Count’s chief point in an instant. From 
that moment the debate .was no longer doubtful ; Sir 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


40 

Algernon had now the one link which had been want- 
ing in his chain of logic, and everyone at the table felt 
that Major Powell and his co-adjutors were worsted. 
General Pelham, satisfied with his victory, proposed to 
join the ladies. 

As the gentlemen walked upstairs. Sir Algernon, who 
was always on the look-out for any one who might 
swell the talent of that side of the House which he 
hoped one day to lead, congratulated Macleod most 
graciously. “ You were just in the nick of time,” he 
said ; “ your argument was the very one wanted. I hope 
it may not be long before you may have an opportunity 
of coming to my assistance as efficaciously in another 
place.” 

In the drawing-room, Macleod was just moving 
towards Lady Atherley when General Pelham button- 
holed him, and began to pour into his unwilling 
ear a long description of the Afghan campaign of 
1840. Count de Boisvillon thought this was a good 
opportunity to reproach Lady Atherley for her con- 
duct towards him, but just as he began to speak to 
her, Mrs. Heathermount sailed up to him and carried 
him off to the piano, and Captain Ruflfhed and Mr. 
Smithson, who both felt the influence of Lady Atherley’s 
charms, hastened to take the vacant chairs on each 
side of her. 

Mr. Arbuthnot, who had been getting on too fast 
with Mrs. Powell, now felt all the awkwardness of a 
flirtation which had grown up too rapidly, and he 
found himself in a position from which it was difiicult 
to retire, and get beyond which he dared not advance, 
for he was able to see that Mrs. Powell was simply a 
flirt and nothing worse. 

At last General Pelham gave Macleod a chance of 
escape, and he too joined the little court which Lady 
Atherley had by this time assembled around her, but 
only just in time to hear Mr. Smithson paying her a 
ponderous compliment which Captain Ruffhed tried to 
surpass, when she rose to say good-night, as her carriage 
had been announced some minutes before. Macleod 
offered his arm, and led her downstairs. 

“Well, you did not come and speak to me in the 
drawing-room,” she said, archly. 


HIS LAST PASSION, 4I 

“You know I couldn’t,” and Macleod looked so 
vexed that she hastened to reassure him. 

“ I saw you couldn’t, but if you have anything more 
to say to me I shall be at home to-morrow at five 
o’clock, at No. 55, Grosvenor Square.” 

“ I can’t come to-morrow ; I am unfortunately 
engaged,” said Macleod, “ but the next day at the 
same hour.” 

“I don’t know. I can’t answer for myself then, 
but you may come on the chance of finding me.” 

By this time Macleod had placed a black satin cloak, 
embroidered in red and yellow silk and lined with sable, 
upon her shoulders, and as he did so he could not 
resist the temptation of letting his hands rest there for 
a moment, though he had not thought at dinner of 
venturing to touch her hand. As she disengaged her- 
self gently from him she thought, “ If my husband were 
only like that I could do without wealth and luxury.” 
He handed her into her carriage, and as she drove off 
he stood for a moment bareheaded in the chill night 
air. “ And this is the day of my defeat,” he thought, 
“ and yet I have not felt so happy for years. What 
strange beings we are ! ” 

“ Don’t you think it was just as well we went to the 
Heathermount’s,” asked Mrs. Macleod as she lay down 
beside her husband that night. “ I thought it awfully 
joUy. Major Powell was so nice. Did you enjoy it ?” 

“ Immensely,” said Macleod, and he blew out the 
light. 


CHAPTER IV. 

ELLA MACLEOD. 

The Macleods had married very early, at an age when 
most boys and girls are only dreaming of marriage as a / 
vague probability of the future. In fact he had 
waited impatiently for his twenty-first birthday to get 
the knot tied, and she, a romantic- girl of seven* 


42 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


teen, had fallen in love with him and married him, as 
she would have fallen in love with and married any 
man of tolerable appearance and gentlemanlike man- 
ners, with whom she had happened to come in contact 
at that time. 

For the first three or four years they had lived in a 
somewhat dingy paradise in Kensington Gate, thoroughly 
happy in each other’s society, refusing all dances and 
almost all dinners, and seeing friends as little as pos- 
sible. Before the first year of their marriage had 
passed a son had been born to them, and the young 
mother had found the care of him sufficient to occupy 
her time. How had this state of things changed ? 
Neither of them could tell. Gradually they began to 
see a little more of society — they even went to dances 
— Ronald Macleod not caring to dance at first, but 
standing in everybody’s way about doorways, taking 
dowagers down to supper, sometimes even, out of good- 
nature, taking some “impossible” wallflower for a 
turn. Happy all the time that his wife should 
be admired, and that she should enjoy dancing, 
he nevertheless used to get rather tired during the 
small hours of the morning. At first Ella Macleod 
was pleased with her husband. It seemed so kind of 
him to take her out when he cared so little for gaiety 
himself, and she used to tell him of the compliments 
which were paid her, for though she would as soon 
have thought of throwing her child out of the window 
as of flirting, she was young, married, and pretty-— 
three qualities which brought her a good deal of atten- 
tion, notwithstanding the pureness of her heart. But 
after a while it happened two or three times that men 
pointed out her husband to her with some such remark 
as “ How melancholy that fellow looks,” or “ I wonder 
a man cares to come to a dance and stick up against 
the wall all night.” 

From that time his pale face, watching her about the 
room, became a reproach to her, and she begged him 
to try a dance with some nice girl, and see if he 
wouldn’t like it. He danced, and he did like it. He 
happened to be introduced to a remarkably pretty girl, 
and a confirmed flirt. She did her best to make his 
evening pleasant, and she succeeded. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


43 


Ronald’s nature was different from his wife's. She 
would have considered a kiss from any man’s lips except 
her husband’s as an infamy, but he — confident of his 
affection for her — soon came to look upon a caress 
bestowed upon some pretty girl as a harmless ingredient 
in an evening’s amusement — a trifle which was not 
worth thinking about the next day. Ella saw with 
alarm the change in her husband, and once gr twice 
when she had come into some conservatory or boudoir 
and found him bending affectionately over his partner, 
or pressing her hand, she had felt the blood flowing to 
her heart with a sickening rush, but her pride prevented 
her from saying a word to him, though sometimes she 
would lie awake for hours with the tears flowing 
silently down her cheeks, while the terrible thought 
forced itself upon her that all the love she had given 
him was despised and that he was unworthy of her. 
Perhaps a word of reproach or a scene of jealousy 
might have changed this state of things, and have put 
a stop to Ronald’s flirtations for ever, but Ella was not 
the woman to speak that word or enact such a scene. 

“ No,” she thought, “ if his love for me is not strong 
enough to keep him, he is not worth trying to keep by 
any other bonds.” But though she showed no signs of 
jealousy, her suffering soured her temper, and her 
husband was often astounded at the unreasonable 
manner in which she would pick a quarrel with him. 
To him it never occurred that she could mind any 
flirtations so harmless and open as those in which he 
indulged — especially when he used to tell her about 
them, without eliciting one word of blame from her. 
But at last he learnt, when too late, that he had 
sacrificed the chief happiness of his life-time for a’ few 
hours of frivolous amusement. One night a Captain 
Osmerton had danced a good many times with Ella. 

The ball-room was growing warmer and warmer, for 
though the windows were all open, the sultry July air 
seemed too heavy to carry away the heat of the 
numerous gas lamps, and between the dances most of 
the guests strayed into the passages or sat on the stairs, 
and some few were venturesome enough to wander out 
into the garden. With some difficulty Captain Osmerton 
persuaded Ella to come out and look at the stars. 


44 


HIS last passion. 


After the intense heat of the ball-room, the right air 
felt delicious, and she sauntered with her partner to a 
summer-house at the end of the garden. 

“ Let us sit down a moment,” said Captain Omerston. 

“ Oh, no,” she replied, “ it looks black and horrid in 
there, and the air is so delicious out here.” 

“Well, I’ll just look in and see what it is like,” and 
he stepped into the summer-house. 

A girl rushed out and ran across the lawn. In the 
moonlight Ella could see that her face was flushed, and 
that the border of artificial flowers round her head 
was torn and hanging down. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon,” muttered Captain 
Osmerton, retreating discreetly from the doorway to 
let a man pass out. 

The man was Ronald Macleod. 

Ella had been enjoying the evening thoroughly. She 
had a wonderful way of stopping men when they began 
to pay her compliments, and of making them feel that it 
was better to leave that kind of nonsense alone, with- 
out hurting their vanity. She was trying this process 
upon Captain Osmerton, when they came to the 
summer-house. 

“You see, other people are not so nervous as. you 
are,” he said ; “ that girl does not seem to have been 
afraid of the dark.” 

Ella’s cup of pleasure had suddenly been dashed 
from her lips. She felt slighted, wounded, almost 
desperate. As she thought of her husband sitting 
there with the girl who had run past her, a defiant 
feeling came over her — a wish to be revenged, a longing 
to do something that would break the ties between her 
and Ronald for ever, even at the cost of her life. 

“ I am not afraid, either,” she said ; “ I will go in 
and sit down, I am tired,” and they walked in. 

As they sat there, she heard his voice, but she did not 
understand what he said. She did not attempt to 
answer him. 

“ Are you ill ? ” he asked, after a few minutes, putting 
his hand on her arm. 

“ No,” she said, quietly. 

He let his hand pass down her arm till he held her 
wrist, which he pressed firmly. She did not withdraw 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


45 


it. For a moment both were silent. Then he sud- 
denly released his hold upon her wrist and passed 
to the opposite side of the way. His heart beat 
quickly, and he thought with exultation of the con- 
quest he had made. She sat unmoved. Her eyes were 
wide open in the darkness and fixed on vacancy, wh^le he 
poured out a few rapid words of love ; but her pulses 
beat no faster, and she scarcely understood the words 
he was uttering. She remained totally unresponsive 
to his wooing; and then bending down his head he pre- 
tended to sympathize with her for her husband’s conduct. 

“ Fool ! ” she cried, starting to her feet, and with her 
clenched hand she struck out at him. All the jealousy, 
the anger which had been burning at her heart burst 
forth in that exclamation. “Take me back to the 
room,” she said, in a voice overflowing with scorn, 

“ and leave me at once. Remember that if ever we 
meet again we are strangers. If you disobey me, I 
shall tell our hostess and my husband of the insult you 
have put upon me.” / 

Captain Osmerton was so astonished at this sudden 
alteration in her manner that he found nothing to say, 
but walked in silence towards the house. As they came 
within the light of the window she saw that a small 
stream of blood was trickling down his face. The sharp 
edge of an oriental bracelet which she wore had torn a 
large strip of skin from his forehead. She called his 
attention to it, and then bowing to him returned to the 
ball-room alone. She had felt no emotion when Captain 
Osmerton poured forth words of love, but she often 
thought of them afterwards. The spell of her purity had 
been broken. She could no longer say that her husband 
was the only man who had spoken of love to her. She 
had, like so many others, listened to the tempter’s voice. 
From that day Ella felt that her love for Ronald was 
gone for ever. 

Not many months later the Macleods were going, 
to Inverness for the Northern Meeting — a gathering 
which they had never missed since their marriage. But 
on the very day that they were to start some urgent 
business in Ronald’s office detained him, and Mrs. 
Macleod went on alone, so that she might have a day’s 
rest after her journey before going to the Meeting balls. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


46 

But it so happened that Ronald was not able to follow 
her for a fortnight. Of course she went to the balls 
with the friends at whose house she was staying, and 
there she met a Mr. Fraser, who took a very great fancy 
to her and danced with her as often as she would allow 
him. 

He was a very plain man, but there was a certain 
dare-devil look about him which greatly pleased her, 
and he had particularly mischievous twinkling eyes 
which gave him a charm, the greater to her mind from 
the contrast which they afforded to Ronald’s habitually 
grave expression. Added to this, he was a man who 
impressed one with the idea that he would carry through 
anything he might undertake. 

The night of the second ball he danced with her 
more than half the evening, and he seemed to have 
such a fascination for her that she began to 
believe she was in love with him ; and when he said 
good night she cordially returned the pressure of 
his hand. During the next few days he managed 
to call every day at the house of the Reptons, with 
whom she was staying a few miles from Inverness, and 
she either rode or walked with him almost every time 
he came. He seemed to exercise a strange power over 
her. He had but to touch her arm, or put his hand on 
her waist, and she felt as if all will of her own had 
oozed out of her. He called her by her Christian name, 
and she had no power to forbid him. When she 
thought of her husband, it was with that hard frame of 
mind which had taken possession of her on the night 
of her adventure with Captain Osmerton, and she felt 
a certain satisfaction in the thought, that she was only 
Moing to Ronald what he had done to her. 

One day, just before Ronald’s arrival, Harry Fraser 
proposed to take Mrs. Repton and Ella for a row on 
the Beauly Firth. It was a fine afternoon, and the 
ladies thought an excursion in a boat would be a 
pleasant change. For an hour or so Fraser rowed 
steadily out to sea, but after that time he shipped the 
oars, and Ella recited one of Aytoun’s spirit-stirring 
“ Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers,” while he lay in the 
bottom of the boat, and Mrs. Repton paddled in the 
water with her hands. A sudden breeze sprang up, and 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


47 


before Fraser thought of turning back to shore the sea 
was getting quite rough. Mrs. Repton was a little 
frightened, but Ella loved to watch the waves rolling 
towards them and dashing the spray in their faces. 
Soon Fraser found that the wind and tide were too 
strong for him, and that it would be impossible to row 
back that night. 

“ There is no help for it,” he said, “ we must just 
make for the shore at any point we can reach, and trust 
to finding our way back by land.” 

But though Fraser toiled manfully, and though the 
ladies sometimes took the oars to give him a rest, night 
had fallen before they reached the shore. Soon after 
landing they met a fisherman, who told them they were 
only about a mile from Nairn; therefore, leaving the 
boat in his care, they walked on to see if they could get 
a train back to Inverness. But the last train was gone, 
so they sent a telegram to Mrs. Repton’s house saying 
that they were safe, and then took rooms for the night 
at the Marine Hotel. 

There a good dinner and a bottle of champagne 
restored their good humour, which had been a little 
tried by their long exposure to the wind and weather, 
and they talked over their misadventure as a good 
piece of fun. The two ladies had a bedroom opening 
out of the room in which they had dined, and Mrs. 
Repton soon felt tired, and got up to go to bed. Ella 
was lying on the sofa, while Fraser was leaning back 
in an armchair beside her, enjoying a cigarette which 
the ladies had given him permission to light. Ella felt 
very comfortable, and not at all inclined to break up 
the evening so soon. 

“ Do stop till Mr. Fraser has finished his cigarette,’* 
she pleaded. 

But Mrs. Repton, who was very delicate and felt 
utterly exhausted, was inexorable. 

“You stop a little longer, if you like,” she said ; 
“ but I must go now.” 

For some minutes after she had left the room Fraser 
kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Macleod, while he puffed 
away at his cigarette in silence. There was a strange light 
in his eyes which caused her a vague sensation of uneasi- 
ness. Suddenly he threw his cigarette into the fireplace. 


48 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


. . . “ My darling Ella,” he murmured, are you angry ? 
Do you hate me ?” 

Her lips moved, and he seemed to feel rather than to 
hear the word “ No.” 

Strange to say, that man exerted a peculiar fascination 
over her at that time. To her he seemed young, intelli- 
gent, serious, deep, armed for the victories of life, with 
all the cold and calculating qualities which she, before 
her marriage, had dreamed of finding in a husband. At 
the outset Fraser seized the situation and foresaw his 
chances. He began to make love to her; and this 
woman, with a husband, with one of the best positions 
in London, listened to him as if spell-bound. It was 
one of those passions which, strange to say, at times 
take hold of women of her age and seem to pass, as it 
were, into their very blood. Fraser, meanwhile, exerted 
all his genius in the endeavour to attach her to himself, 
and to make her blind to her fault. Nothing betrayed 
him, nothing escaped him which could, for one moment, 
have shown her that there was in him that spice of con- 
tempt, that sort of disgust which a man feels for certain 
ridiculous situations in which a woman who loves places 
herself. 

Mademoiselle de Maupin once found that a fold in a 
certain sheet turned the course of her life for several 
years. Ella Macleod owed her name of “ honest 
woman ” to an object scarcely less trivial. At this 
moment Mrs. Repton, who had been lying for some 
little while on her bed, noticed a mouse running across 
the. floor, and as she, in common with a great many of 
her sex, had a particular horror of these little creatures, 
she sprang to the door, shrieking out loudly, “ Ella! 
Ella 1 ” With one bound Fraser stood at a distance 
from the sofa, and Mrs. Macleod sprang to her feet. 
Without saying good-night, she hurried past Fraser 
into the bedroom. 

Many hours passed before she got to sleep that night, 
and as she lay awake, listening to the never-ceasing 
plashing of the waves upon the shore, she realised the 
full depth of the danger upon the brink of which she 
had been standing when Mrs. Repton’s cry had drawn 
her back. Ella was not a woman to have gone back 
to her husband with a smiling face and a tolerably 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


49 


comfortable conscience if she had not been saved by 
that opportune call. Hers was a nature to which the 
fearful comedy of continual deceit would have been 
unbearable, and she would have fled from her. husband 
for ever, rather than have to play so uncongenial a 
part. The thoughts that passed through her mind that 
night seemed to weave a sort of invisible armour 
around her. 

She did not treat FraseV any differently; she even 
let him kiss her again, for a sort of false shame, joined 
with her liking for him, prevented her from altering 
her manner towards him. Though she had been 
surprised into a momentary weakness, hers was not a 
passionate nature, and the crisis which had almost 
led to such grave consequences, had been as unforeseen 
by Fraser as it had by her. 


CHAPTER V. 

MORS AMORIS. 

Two days later, Ronald came north to Inverness. 
That night she told him all. She had meant to let him 
enjoy his holiday, before grieving him with an account 
of her fault ; but he had taken her in his arms so 
tenderly, and seemed so glad to see her again, that she 
felt it was mean of her to let him think too highly of 
her, and her resolve had melted away. 

Before all things in the world, Ronald believed in the 
absolute purity of his wife. If anyone but herself had 
told him what had happened he would have thought 
his informant was a liar or a lunatic, and even when 
she spoke, it was long before he could think she meant 
anything but a hideous jest. When Ella saw his 
incredulity it cut her to the heart. Then she enlarged 
upon her story, dwelling upon the details to punish 
herself and taking all the blame on herself. But when 
her confession was ended he took her in his arms and 


50 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


kissing her tears away he forgave her, thanking God that 
she had fallen in spirit only and not actually in very 
deed. 

But often during the night, as he thought again and 
again of the scene she had described to him, he would 
ask, “ Are you awake ? ” and when he found that she 
was so he would question her as to some detail, and 
then turn round with a heavy heart to brood upon his 
sorrow till the morning. Ella felt deeply touched by 
his kindness to her, and if the love she had once 
borne him had not been quite dead, her pity for him 
would have re-awakened it. 

But though she hated to see his sufferings, she never 
looked upon him as anything morO to her than a very 
kind friend, and when by word or look he showed that 
his love for her was still as strong as ever, she received 
his caresses with indifference — often even with im- 
patience. But unrequited affection does not last long. 
Ronald’s was not a generous nature. Though he had 
forgiven his wife, he never could quite forgive her the 
fact that he had forgiven her, and sometimes, by some 
hint, he could not avoid showing her that her fault was 
not forgotten. Then, too, his faith in her was gone. 
Every man who now paid her attention was a source 
of new anxiety to him. 

For two years his love was dying daily, and the 
death-struggle was fierce and terrible. Sometimes he 
would be harsh and vindictive to her, at others he 
would overwhelm her with kindness. One day he 
would tell her he wished he might never see her 
again, and another he would feel that if she l^ft him 
life could hold out no hope for him. And with his faith 
in her died his faith in an after life. Like many men 
who are miserable in this world, he turned for consola- 
tion to the pictures of the next, which religion draws 
for the weary and heavy laden ; but the more he 
brooded over the subject the weaker his faith became, 
until having retreated from one stronghold of Chris- 
tianity to another, he at length abandoned all belief in 
a future state. 

The anguish of spirit which he had suffered during 
these two years almost broke his heart, and rooted 
out from it all love for his wife, leaving the ground 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


5 * 


clear for that mutual friendship which now grew up 
between them. Once, as a last resource, he had tried 
taking her for a month’s tour in Brittany — at a time of 
yea? when the English tourist is a rava avis in terris — 
hoping that the community of thought which their 
ardent love of scenery would awaken might once more 
bring their hearts together. But a young Barrister, a 
Mr. Fausterley, who was travelling for his health, 
happened to meet them at a table dlidte almost at the 
beginning of their journey, and feeling very lonely by 
himself he arranged his route so as to suit theirs, and 
contrived that they should seldom go anywhere without 
him. 

At first Ronald chafed a good deal at this infliction, 
but Fausterley was light-hearted and amusing, and 
both the Macleods conceived a great regard for him, 
and an intimacy sprang up between the two men which 
soon ripened into friendship, so that Ronald consoled 
himself with the idea that though his tour had failed 
to regain for him his wife’s affection — a result which he 
had always regarded as extremely problematical — still 
it had brought him a friend. 

After the Macleods returned to town, their new 
friend, who came home a few months later, was 
made welcome at their house in St. George’s Square — 
so welcome that, before long, he used to go to dine 
with them, sans fagon, whenever he and they had no 
engagement ; and a week seldom passed without his 
devoting at least one evening to them. 

Charlie Fausterley had always looked upon marriage 
as one of the greatest mistakes which two human 
beings could make, but when he became acquainted 
with what seemed to him the sensible views which the 
Macleods held on the subject, he modified his opinions, 
and began to think that there might after all be some 
advantages in the wedded state. To him it appeared 
that his new friends were always kind and courteous to 
each other, while at the same time neither attempted 
to curtail the libert}' of the other in any way, nor did 
they surfeit each other with demonstrations of affection 
or exhibitions of jealousy. 

On the other hand, the Macleods were equally well- 
pleased with him. He was always ready to do any- 


52 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


thing for them. Whatever occupied the attention 
of either of them became instantly an object of 
interest to him, and he soon became the confidant of 
both upon all subjects except those relating to the 
attitude which they had assumed towards each other. 

To Mrs. Macleod this intimacy was an especial 
advantage. Her husband being occupied all day, 
Fausterley— ^who was as yet almost briefless, and had 
plenty of time at his disposal — was able to take her out 
shopping or driving when, had she depended upon 
Ronald, she must eithpr have gone alone or stayed at 
home. For some time this intimacy was perfectly 
Platonic, but gradually Fausterley, who was convinced 
that Ronald looked upon his wife merely as a friend, 
managed to introduce into the relations which existed 
between himself and Mrs. Macleod a certain degree of 
tenderness. 

Although in the beginning Ella rather discouraged 
this change in his manner, she soon came to look upon 
it as rather pleasant than otherwise, and she accord- 
ingly accepted it as in some way filling up the void in 
her heart which the fading away of her love for her 
husband had left there. Her adventure with Mr. 
Fraser at Nairn made her feel that there was no 
danger about this new liaison. The lesson which that 
hairbreadth escape had taught her was never likely to 
be forgotten. From that moment passion would never 
surprise her again. She might fall into sin ; who is 
absolutely proof against every temptation of the world, 
the flesh, and the devil ? but if she did so it would be 
deliberately, and not in an unguarded moment. So 
thoroughly had she realized all that she had been saved 
from when Mrs. Repton called her, that no unforeseen 
event could ever again throw her into the same 
danger. 

Ronald Macleod was long in noticing this alteration 
in the relations between his wife and Fausterley. His 
friend’s face was peculiarly open and frank-looking, 
and he was accustomed to speak to him so openly and 
freely upon the most secret feelings of his own heart 
that many suspicious circumstances passed quite 
unnoticed by him. Besides, he himself was so 
utterly incapable of betraying any friend who had 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


53 


placed an equal amount of confidence in him that it 
seemed to him as unlikely that any undue affection 
should spring up between his wife and Fausterley as 
that she should fall in love with a brother. 

One summer night, however, he happened to come 
into the drawing-room where they were sitting, without 
attracting their attention, and he overheard a few 
words which could scarcely be interpreted quite 
innocently ; not did the alacrity with which Fausterley 
sprang to his feet, or the expression of confusion which 
he and Ella wore, tend to reassure him. The 
blood rushed violently back to his heart, but the 
suffering he had undergone in the last few years had 
given him sufficient mastery over himself to enable 
him to conceal his emotion, and neither Ella nor 
Fausterley could be certain whether he had heard any- 
thing or not. 

By an almost superhuman effort he contrived to let a 
month pass without either changing his manner to 
them or even letting himself attempt to find out what 
degree of intimacy existed between them. After that 
he judged that the security which his great trust in 
them had established in their minds would be com- 
pletely restored. Then he watched them. Every 
word they said in his hearing, whether meant for his 
ear or not, was weighed, every glance that passed 
between them was reasoned upon with a calmness 
which often astonished Ronald himself. 

Gradually he understood the situation until at last 
he knew their feelings almost better than they did them- 
selves. There was a flavour of romance about their 
intimacy which made life pleasanter to both of them. 
Ella was perfectly safe. It was true she sometimes spoke 
a little more tenderly, or pressed Fausterley’s hand 
with more warmth, than was actually right, but she was 
determined to do her duty by her husband, whom she 
believed to be true to her, though she still remembered 
the flirtations in which he had formerly indulged. 

Fausterley on his side looked upon her with the 
deepest respect and affection. He really believed that 
had she been unmarried he could have found it in his 
heart to make her his wife, but, at the same time, he 
was glad that it was not necessary to analyze his 


54 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


feelings on that point. When he told her of his love for 
her she listened to him so long as he spoke only of what 
might have been had she been unmarried, but if 
he ever attempted in any way to go further and 
to speak of hopes in the future, her manner would 
change at once, and a single gesture from her would 
suffice to change the current of the conversation. 

Had Ella’s been a more passionate nature this 
intercourse would have been dangerous. As it was, 
if Fausterley sometimes thought for a moment of 
dragging Ella from the pedestal upon which his 
admiration and respect had placed her, the manner in 
which she inveighed, with all the force of her cold 
nature, against those women who sacrifice honour, 
fame, self-respect, home, and family to one of the 
lowest passions of humanity, while they are yet ignoble 
enough to cling to the outward semblance of the virtue 
they have lost, would bring him in a moment to a 
purer state of mind, and he would curse himself as a 
brute, for daring to think of bringing shame upon 
friends to whom he owed so many happy hours. 

Satisfied with the result of his investigation, Ronald 
forgave what he could not like in Fausterley, and made 
him his most intimate friend, confident that that was 
the surest way of rooting out anything which he did 
not approve of in the intimacy which existed between 
Ella and him. 

As time went on this sort of three-cornered friendship 
grew stronger. 

Soon Ronald held no secrets from his friend, but spoke 
to him without reserve upon any subject which hap- 
pened to be in his mind at the moment. Fausterley, 
who had always supposed that the comparative indif- 
ference which existed between the Macleods was due 
to some fancy which Ronald had conceived for another 
woman, was surprised to find that there were really no 
grounds for such a belief; nor did it seem possible that 
such a state of things could exist, for he soon found 
that Ronald spoke to him with extraordinary frankness — 
even mentioning the suspicion with which he had once 
looked on Fausterley ’s attitude towards his wife. 

Ronald had spoken thus plainly for two reasons; 
firstly, because he thought that friends should have no 


HIS LAST PASSION* 


55 


secrets from each other ; and, secondly, because he was 
anxious to show that any suspicion which had once 
existed was now entirely removed. 

But his motives were thoroughly misunderstood. 
Fausterley imagined that this conversation was meant 
as a warning to him, and he conceived the idea that 
Ronald regarded him with distrust. 

From that day he determined that he would let his 
intimacy with Ella be less noticeable. This idea he 
also impressed upon Ella, and they agreed that although 
they would never conceal from Ronald any meeting 
which might occur between them, still they would not 
mention it unnecessarily. Thus it happened that the 
course which Ronald had pursued with the idea of 
loyally making everything frank and open between 
himself and his friend was the cause of a number of 
reticences on the part of Fausterley — a species of 
passive deception which gradually undermined his own 
loyalty, and led him and Ella to look upon Ronald as a 
kind of enemy against whom their common safety 
obliged them to combine. 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE FIRST VISIT. 

When Ronald returned to his office the morning 
after Mrs. Heathermount’s dinner, he found that his 
colleagues were not so careful of his feelings as the 
guests of the previous evening had been. Some of the 
clerks chaffed him, others were sorry that the “ House’* 
should have missed being represented in Parliament — 
others again were envious. The mere fact that he 
should have become a partner was intolerable to them, 
and when he had gone down to Sandborough to contest 
the borough they had declared that the whole thing 
was a farce. “ What is Parliament coming to,” they 
asked, “ if a fellow like Macleod can even be put in 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


56 

nomination for a seat ? Of course he won’t have a ghost of 
a chance, but, hang it all, we shall soon have a House 
of Commons like the American Senate, and all decent 
people will leave politics to the dregs of the people.’* 
To men like these the news of Ronald’s defeat was like 
a shower of rain to tha parched pastures of July, and 
they took care, by many cutting remarks, to show their 
satisfaction. But what astonished everybody, was the 
singular equanimity with which he bore his reverse. 
It was well-known that he was ambitious, and now his 
hopes were overthrown. His pecuniary position was 
known to every clerk in the house. His capital in the 
business was already far smaller than what his senior 
partners might reasonably have expected him to put 
into it, and consequently he could not withdraw even 
a thousand pounds from it, and that sum would, in all 
probability, be scarcely more than sufficient to cover 
his expenses. And yet, with all this, it was patent to 
everybody, that Ronald could not have been more 
cheerful if he had gained a victory, and had his ex- 
penses paid for him. 

When business hours were over Ronald jumped into 
a cab and drove to the Temple, where he was just in 
time to catch Fausterley, and they walked into the 
Gaiety bar to have a glass of sherry. 

‘‘ What has happened to you ? ” asked Fausterley. 
“ I never saw you look like this before. Have they 
found out some mistake in the election ? or have you 
just inherited a fortune ? ” 

“ Neither one nor the other, but I went to an awfully 
jolly dinner last night, and met such a woman,” and 
then Ronald gave his friend an account of the dinner 
party, or rather of what he had seen of it, which was 
very little, coming back every now and again to some 
remark Lady Atherley had made, and dwelling upon 
her beauty, exaggerating her wit ; trying, in fact, to 
describe her not as she really was, but as he saw her 
by the light of his newly-born passion. 

Meanwhile the barmaid, who had expected when 
they came in to get some chaff or some broad compli- 
ments from them, stood by with a look of disdain on 
her face, picking up grains of salt on the tip of her 
forefinger and putting them on the point of her tongue, 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


57 


very much bored at Ronald’s interminable description, 
and equally disgusted with their neighbours — two 
bookmakers — who were too busy discussing a bottle 
of champgjgne and the merits of a “real good thing” 
for some race, to notice her. 

Fausterley was delighted to hear of his friend’s 
infatuation. He had always felt that the correctness 
of Ronald’s life was rather a reproach to him for his own 
somewhat dissipated habits. 

“ Of course you are going to call on her to-day,” he 
said, “ where does she live ; and what is her name ?” 

“ Oh, never mind about that now. I can’t go and 
call to-day, because I said I wouldn’t. You see I 
knew I must arrange about my election expenses, and 
I did not know how long my partners might want to 
keep me.” 

“ And is that settled ?” 

“ Oh, yes. They have been awfully nice about it. 
They have allowed me to draw in advance upon my 
share of the profits for the year, and I am to take as 
little as I can possibly manage at the next two or three 
divisions until it is wiped off.” 

“But why don’t you go and call now? — it is only a 
quarter to six, and I am sure from what you tell me she 
will be glad to see you ; besides, you know, ‘ strike 
while the iron is hot.’ ” 

“ I see I am wrong in speaking to you, about this, 
Charlie, you can’t imagine a fellow liking a woman 
without immediately putting some coarse construction 
upon it.” 

“ Forgive me, old chap,” said Fausterley, changing 
his tone. “ I don’t mean anything, but I can’t help 
chaffing. I didn’t think you were serious. But you 
know you really ought to go to-night. She would like 
it. It would look as if you were in earnest, and then 
you know women are so funny — an impression so soon 
wears off with them, it really is unwise to let her have 
another twenty-four hours to forget you in.” 

“ I feel you are right,” said Ronald, “ but I can’t go; 
and remember^ if she does see me to-morrow and receives 
me nicely, these twenty-four hours will then count for 
me.” 

“Well — good-bye, I must be off now,” said Fans- 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


58 

terley; “ I wish you good luck for to-morrow, and don't 
be angry at my chaff ; I’ll try and be more respectful 
in the future.” 

Ronald walked slowly down the Strand. How he 
wished that he had not said he was engaged. He might 
have known that his partners would not keep him very 
long, and then, instead . of wandering alone in the 
streets, he might have been with her at that very 
moment ; and now, suppose Fausterley was right, and 
that she should not receive him, or else that she 
received him very coldly; and he pictured himself 
going to the door and sending up his card, and then, 
after a pause, the footman coming down with the 
message that “ her ladyship is not at home.” Or then, 
again, he fancied himself walking up the staircase, and 
finding half-a-dozen tiresome old frumps calling. “But 
ril sit them out if I have to stay all night,” he thought. 

The hurry and bustle of the Strand annoyed him. 
He turned down Bedford Street, and Garrick Street, 
and still his mind was busy guessing what his first visit 
would be like. Perhaps he would come into the room 
and find her alone. How eagerly he would rush 
forward to seize her hand. But then if she were to be 
very cold, and talk of nothing but politics, for instance. 

How very probable it seemed that that intimacy 
which had sprung up so rapidly under the artificial 
light and heat of Mrs. Heathermount’s dinner-table, 
should wither and die when exposed to the cold 
air of a formal call. Decidedly it was pleasanter 
to think of the past than to dream of the imme- 
diate future. In his memories of the past even- 
ing Ronald had not one disagreeable incident to 
recall. But where was he going ? He had turned 
northwards out of Coventry Street and was now in 
that network of little streets which lie south of Oxford 
Street. Why he came there he could not think. How- 
ever, as he could not be far from Grosvenor Square he 
thought he would just walk through it. It was ridicu- 
lous, of course, but what of that ? He passed by No. 
55. It was a substantial-looking house, but still, to 
him, there was something forbidding in its aspect. It 
seemed to frown at him. No light in the drawing-room 
window; only the flashing of the firelight. “Most 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


59 

likely she is out,” he thought. “ How lucky I didn’t 
call ; but perhaps she will come in soon, it is getting 
rather late. I will walk up and down and see her go 
in. No. Hang it all, this is too idiotic,” and hailing 
a passing hansom he drove home. 

The next day Macleod got through his work with 
wonderful rapidity. By three o’clock he was ready to 
leave, but for another half hour he continued to write 
letters, for which there was no necessity. He felt too 
nervous to be idle, and he hardly dared think about 
the visit he was so soon to pay. Shortly after half-past 
three he was driving to Grosvenor Square. Several times 
his thoughts carried him far away — why, he could not 
tell, but it was not of Lady Atherley that he thought 
chiefly. Things which he had long forgotten engrossed 
his attention to such an extent that he forgot where he 
was. Then, suddenly would come the consciousness 
that he was driving through the streets, and that he 
had been doing so for hours, or was it days ? What, 
only Regent Street, impossible ! and then his thoughts 
would fly to some other subject. But at last the cab 
stopped — what a long time the footman took in answer- 
ing his knock — “ Is Lady Atherley at home ? ” His 
heart was beating so violently that he was afraid the 
footman would hear it. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

It was all right, then ; Ronald wished he had some 
excuse for giving that footman half a sovereign. The foot- 
man would have taken the money without one. When 
Ronald was shown into the drawing-room there was no 
one in it. It was a large room with the darkest green 
Wilton carpet relieved by sprays of artistically arranged 
flowers, which were so cleverly designed that they seemed 
almost to lie upon the carpet instead of being a part of 
it. The furniture of ebony, with the slightest possible 
touch of gilding, was covered in crimson plush. The 
heavy curtains of the same material were trimmed with 
point lace, which matched the antimacassars lying upon 
the arm-chairs. An ebony grand piano by Broadwood 
with a piece of music open upon it stood between two 
fire-places, the mantel-pieces of which were supported 
by mermaids sculptured in the purest marble. The 
tails of these mermaids were continued for a short 


6o 


HIS LAST PASSIONi 


distance along the edge of marble fenders. A pair of 
Abbotsford stoves, in one of which a small fire was 
burning, rested upon hearths of white tiles on which 
marine monsters were designed in dark green, while 
the tiles surrounding the stoves contained figures of 
Neptune on each side, and at the top the rising of 
Venus from the waves. The walls were papered in 
grey-green, with a few points of gilding upon the 
pomegranates, which formed the chief pattern of 
the paper. A painted dado of dark green, rising 
to a height of about 3ft. 6in., was lighted up by 
a profusely gilded pattern, and a border of gilding 
about eight inches wide, with mythological figures 
painted upon it, ran round the room against the ceiling. 
Between the three windows at one end of the room, 
were placed two little tables covered with old china. 
A large portion of the wall, opposite the fire-places, 
was occupied by an enormous mirror in an ebony and 
gold frame, reaching from a luxurious ottoman up to the 
ceiling. Above the fire-places were two large mirrors 
of Venetian glass, and the ornaments upon the mantel- 
pieces consisted entirely of chefs d' oeuvre from Salviati’s. 
A few water-colours by Tenkate, Bonnington, and Stan- 
field ornamented the walls, while ebony and gold brackets 
and Hageres covered with Dresden figures and Capo 
da Monti cups and saucers filled up the odd corners. 
At the end of the room farthest from the windows 
stood a large ebony cabinet ornamented with pietra 
dura and chiselled brass, containing priceless gems of 
ceramic art by the great masters of Sevres, Berlin, 
Vienna, and Arras, and also some crystal and enamelled 
goblets set with precious stones, — chief among them 
a tassa of lapis lazuli set in gold with rubies, and 
sapphires, and diamonds, supposed to have been shaped 
by the hand of Benvenuto Cellini himself. 

Behind this cabinet opened two glass doors giving 
access to a conservatory containing a replica of 
Canova’s Cupid and Psyche, surrounded by a great 
variety of ferns, orchids, and other exotic plants. 
Across an angle of this conservatory was swung a 
silken hammock at the height of little mor© than t /o 
feet from the floor. Over the ceiling of the drawing- 
room had been stretched a canvas upon which a rising 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


6z 


French artist had painted a large group oi nymphs and 
Cupids upon a background of blue sky and white clouds, 
the figures being copied from various pictures by 
Boucher. 

Ronald placed his hat and cane upon the floor 
beside an armchair, and after standing up for a 
minute or two in expectation that Lady Atherley would 
come in, he sat down. 

He was very fond of works of art and books, but he 
did net examine any of the various treasures around 
him, nor did he even read the titles of any of the 
books lying upon the table. One miniature which 
was standing open upon the table he took up for a 
moment, but the features bore no resemblance to those 
of Lady Atherley, and he put it down forgetting straight- 
way whether it had been a portrait of a man or a woman. 
Lady Atherley seemed to be a long time coming, but 
Ronald cared not. She might keep him waiting for 
half-an-hour if she chose, for he was certain he should 
see her now. 

He could not understand how it was that a woman 
whom he had only seen once could be so much to him ; 
but he did not realise that although he had only seen 
her once in the flesh, he had been seeing her and con- 
versing with her in imagination almost every minute of 
the day since he had met her, so that his love for her 
had grown far beyond the stage it had reached when he 
said “ Good night” to her outside Mrs. Heathermount’s 
door, two nights before. 

At last the door opened. Ronald had heard no 
foot-step on the thick stair-carpet, and he started to 
his feet as Lady Atherley entered the room. 

She wore one of those blue cotton dresses with white 
spots, which had not yet become common, but which 
a few months later were seen by dozens at every 
seaside place. Ronald advanced rapidly to meet her, 
and pressed her proffered hand warmly. 

“ How good of you to come,” she said. 

And how can I thank you for your kindness in 
staying in to see me ? ” asked Ronald, with a depre- 
cating gesture. 

“ How do you know that I stayed in with that 

object ? ** 


62 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


** I don’t know whether you did or not, and that 
matters little now, since I have the happiness of finding 
you,” he answered. 

“ Well, do you know I had a good mind to punish you 
or not coming yesterday, by saying I was not at home, 
but I felt very dull, so I thought I would see you.” 

“If you wished to punish me, your wish has been 
granted, for I have been punished already — you little 
know — I little knew when I told you I was engaged 
what it would cost me to wait till to-day.” 

Lady Atherley walked to the ottoman in front of the 
large mirror and sat down. Ronald seated himself beside 
her. For a moment their eyes met. “ I am so happy,” 
said Ronald, forgetting all etiquette, and taking her 
hand in his, and drawing her towards him he pressed 
a kiss upon her cheek. Lady Atherley, a little startled 
at his behaviour, drew her hand back gently, and, with- 
out taking any notice of what he had done, asked him 
to ring for tea. 

“ No,” said Ronald ; “ please don’t bother about tea 
now. I don’t know who may be coming in to call upon 
you at any moment, and now that I am here do let me 
see you and talk to you for a little while. You don’t 
understand what happiness it is to me just to look at 
you again. I have been so anxious about this visit, I 
kept picturing to myself that I might not see you, 
or that people would be here, and now I have you 
alone I must tell you that I love you. Yes, 
Constance, I am mad to tell you this, I know, 
but it is such a pleasant madness, and I think 
it is better than the sanity of all the wise men 
in the world. I don't ask you to love me. I am 
willing to leave myself out of the question if you will 
only let me see you sometimes and let me worship you. 
Only let me call now and again, that is all I ask. I 
know it is wrong to speak to you like this, but I 
am so happy,” and, throwing his arms round her, he 
kissed her again just below the ear. For a moment 
Lady Atherley strove to get free, but he held her 
firmly. Her first sensation had been one of surprise. 
Then for an instant she thought of ringing for assistance, 
but as he poured out his words with a deep, joyous 
earnestness, which reached her heart in spite of herself, 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


«3 

her will gave way, and when he held her !n his arms 
with his lips pressed against her neck her indignation 
vanished. 

“ How did you learn my name? ” was all she said, 

“From the ‘ Peerage,’ ” he answered. “ I have turned 
to Atherley in every available book of the kind. Thoc3 
pages were the only words of you which I could get 
anywhere, for I dared not trust myself to call on the 
Heathermounts, for fear of saying too much, or letting 
them guess how deep an impression you have made 
upon me.” 

“Then I suppose you were satisfied with what you 
found there, since you have come to call? ” 

“ If there is any satire intended in that remark I do 
not heed it,” said Ronald, taking Lady Atherley’s 
hand once more in his, and looking straight into her 
eyes ; “it may seem strange to you that I should so 
suddenly have conceived this passion for you. To me it 
is incomprehensible, because for years I have given up 
all idea of anything of the kind, and until yesterday I 
should have treated the idea of my ever loving again 
as altogether preposterous, but however odd you may 
think it, I believe firmly that your woman’s wit must 
teach you that this love is real and heartfelt, and that 
whether you bore the highest rank in the land or the 
humblest my love would be equally strong and 
genuine.” 

Lady Atherley shook her head sadly. ** No,” she 
said, “ you are like the rest ; many men have paid 
me attention ; why, I know not ; but for some 
reason or other, men always seem attracted to me. It 
sounds conceited perhaps to say so, but it is the case. 
At balls, at dinners, wherever I go I get compliments 
which sicken me; admiration which palls upon me, 
but love — no, never.” 

“Yes,” answered Ronald, “ I saw for myself how the 
men came round you after dinner at the Heather- 
mount’s, and I understand how it must always be so ; for 
there is something about you so feminine, so womanly, 
so unlike us and yet so exactly what is wanted to 
complete us, that almost all men must feel drawn 
towards you. That ninety-nine out of a hundred of the 
men who are so attracted think only of the pleasure of 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


64 

being with you at the moment, and do not receive any 
very deep impression — although at the time they may 
be tempted to think they have — I will rcadily believe ; 
but because most men are in this sense little better than 
puppets, don’t think that we are all so. I am so con- 
vinced that I love you — that I am not a puppet to you, 
but a real man with a real heart of flesh and blood — 
that your doubting my love gives me not the smallest 
uneasiness, for I know that truth which is so deep and 
so earnest must prevail and obtain credence, however 
strange or improbable it may appear at first sight.” 

“You may be right in what you say,” answered 
Lady Atherley, “ but I cannot believe you. Perhaps I 
would not if I could. And yet you seem to me to be 
something different to other men,” she continued, look- 
ing at the carpet and talking almost to herself, while 
she left her hand unconsciously in Ronald’s. “The 
other night, at the Heathermount’s, I noticed you when 
we came into the room, and I thought I should like to 
be introduced to you; and then, when you sat next me 
at dinner, I felt I must say something sympathetic to 
you, for I had heard your name, and knew of your 
defeat. At first, I half feared you would be like so many 
other men, who just pay us silly compliments and talk 
nonsense; but, as the evening wore on, and you talked 
of unusual subjects, and evidently never once thought 
of saying anything complimentary to me, I saw you 
were not quite like everybody else, and I hoped we 
should meet again ; indeed, I felt yesterday afternoon 
that you were coming, notwithstanding your having 
said you could not, and so strong was the idea in 
my mind that, although we were going to the theatre, 
I did not go up to dress till the last moment.” 

“ And did you really think about me late yesterday 
afternoon ? ” asked Ronald, delighted. “ Well, you 
will think it awfully foolish me, but I actually came 
to the house about half-past six, and I should have 
walked up and down in front of it, on the chance of 
catching a glimpse of you, if I had not felt that it was 
too childish.’"’ 

“ How very^ strange. I felt you were near me. Do 
you believe in magnetism and spiritualism, and that 
sort of thing ? ” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


«5 

“ In magnetism, yes. In spiritualism I can’t say, 
for I made many attempts to investigate it, and wasted 
many hours at stances, without arriving at any satis- 
factory result, though I must say I consider the 
balance of the evidence I collected to be decidedly 
against the theory that^t is all imposture.” 

“ Oh, do you know,” said Lady Atherley, “ I have 
been wishing for years to see a stance^ and I don’t know 
anyone who holds them.” 

“ And yet it is the easiest thing imaginable to go to 
one. Will you let me arrange one for you ? ” 

“ Oh, that would be delightful ; but when ? ** 

“To-night, if you like; that is, if you don’t mind 
going to a paid medium. In fact, if you are going 
merely out of curiosity, a professional medium will do 
as well as an amateur, and it is more likely that mani- 
festations will occur.” 

“But are you in earnest? Do you really mean 
to-night ? ” 

“ Yes, of course I do. To-night or any night, but 
to-night by preference, because one of the best mediums 
holds a sHnce to-night, and besides, I should see some- 
thing more of you.” 

Lady Atherley was charmed with the idea. After a 
moment’s consideration, she said : 

“ I think I might manage it. My husband is going 
to dine at Richmond, and he will not be back till about 
eleven. I am to dine with my sister, and I will leave 
her early and then we can go.” 

“ But that will never do. You should be at the 
seance by eight o’clock,” objected Ronald. “ If you 
can put off your sister, why not dine at home or some- 
where with me at seven, and we could have dinner over 
before eight and go on to the stance in time.” 

“It is rather awkward, you see. My cook has a 
holiday, and I don’t like to dine anywhere with you. It 
. would look bad if anyone met us. I hardly could do that.” 

“ But we could go to some quiet place and have a 
private room,” urged Ronald. 

“ Impossible.” 

“ Well, let us arrange for another day.” 

But Lady Atherley was quite excited over the idea 
of going to this stance. 

B 


66 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


“ It is very foolish,” she said, “ but it would be such 
fun ; yes, I will go. When and where shall I njeet 
you ? ” 

“ At Charing Cross large waiting-room at a quarter 
to seven, if that will suit you.” 

“ Very well, it is almost five now. I must send a 
note round to my sister at once to tell her I will not 
be with her to dinner.” 

“ Till seven, then, good-bye,” said Ronald, and he 
pressed his lips upon her hand — fearful lest if he kissed 
her face again she might be alarmed and refuse to 
come. 


CHAPTER VII. 

AT CHARING CROSS. 

As soon as the door closed behind him Ronald hurried 
away towards home, but suddenly the thought occurred 
to him that it would be difficult to make an excuse for 
going out again immediately if he went into the house, 
BO he hailed a cab, and, driving back to the City, sent a 
telegram to his wife saying that he was detained, and 
would dine at some restaurant. At half-past six he 
was at Charing Cross Station. He heard the bell at 
Westminster, but though he was a quarter of an hour 
early he fancied that Lady Atherley’s watch might be a 
little fast, or that she might have miscalculated the time 
It would take to drive from Grosvenor Square, and 
that she might be already there. So he ran across 
the open space in front of the station, as if he were 
trying to catch a train, and, just stopping for a second 
outside the waiting-room door, to feel if his tie was all 
right and to smooth his moustache with his fingers, he 
walked in. 

Casting a rapid glance around, he did- not see 
Lady Atherley, and then he walked slowly across 
the room, examining every person in it. But she was 
Qot there, and Ronald was glad to think that he would 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


67 


be there to receive her when she came. “ A quarter of 
an hour to wait,” thought he, looking at the clock, and 
he walked out to get a paper, and then came 
back, and settled himself down opposite the door 
at which he had entered. But he found it very 
difficult to read, for he was obliged to look up every 
minute when the door opened. After he had run 
through the whole of the summary of the news of the 
day — without, however, taking in a single fact which 
was there recorded — he looked at the clock and found 
that he had still eleven minutes to wait. He walked 
to the window and looked out. People were constantly 
arriving — mostly men returning home after their work, 
and hurrying to catch their trains. Some driving up 
and jumping out of cabs, while the busy porters at- 
tended to their luggage; others sauntering up as if 
they were not going anyv^here in particular. 

One or two unfortunate women were walking up and 
down in front of the station, eyeing a tall, good-looking 
young private of the “ Blues,” one of them evidently 
half anxious to make friends with him, but not allowing 
herself that amusement at so early an hour, and every 
now and then turning her back upon him, with a heroic 
resolution to attend to business. But though Ronald 
could see every one who entered the station, he still 
turned round every time the waiting-room door opened, 
in case Lady Atherley should have passed him in some 
mysterious way. It was now two or three minutes past 
the quarter. “She can’t be long now,” he thought; 
so he threw his paper on the table, and walked out to 
the front of the station, for it would be pleasanter for 
her not to have to enter the waiting-room at all. Fora 
minute or two he stood just outside the folding doors. 
The sun had set, and he felt cold, for he had put on a 
pair of light summer trousers, patent leather boots, and 
silk socks, to call on the Atherleys, and he had no great 
coat with him. Passengers hurrying in hustled him, 
and he had not been long standing still before the 
unfortunates caught sight of him, and passed by him 
very close, looking up into his face with a smile, 
and then walking on a few paces, turned back to watch 
the effect of their manoeuvres. Still the hansoms kept 
driving up, but no sign of hert 


68 


HIS LAST PASSION< 


He went to the window of the waiting room and 
looked in. An old gentleman, with his head bent 
forward on his chest, and his hands spread out upon 
his waistcoat was dozing peacefully in the corner, while 
two Jews, with very characteristic features, were con- 
versing in a low but animated tone beside him. A 
little beyond, a lady of about five-and-thirty, with an 
expression of annoyance on her face, was alternately 
watching the door opposite to her and the little 
clock on the end wall. At the further end of the 
room, in the right-hand corner, a party of four young 
girls, who had evidently been sight-seeing, were 
chatting and laughing gaily, while two children were 
perched up, one upon the eldest girl’s knee 
the other upon the seat, each with toys in one hand 
and a large piece of gingerbread in the other. On the 
left side of the room were sitting a party of three 
women and two men, with that look of stolid patience 
on their faces which people who have come up from 
the country for a day in town often wear during the 
hour or two they have to wait, in consequence of their 
not having taken the precaution to inquire at what 
time the train starts for their town. Beyond them was 
a young girl with a lovely face, which might have 
served as a model for a picture of Purity. She was 
attired in a simple but lady-like dress, with a light-grey 
silk veil turned back over her bonnet. 

Just past the doorway a pair of old ladies were 
waiting as resignedly as possible till their train started, 
and in the corner two young people were, holding each 
other’s hands, and wishing the time could pass a little 
slower. In the centre of the room, by the farther table, 
sat an old gentleman, with a pair of gold-rimmed eye- 
glasses on his nose, reading the Standard in a low tone 
to an elderly lady beside him, while a boy of about twelve 
years old was standing uncomfortably beside them, and 
tearing little bits of paper off the margin of a bundle 
of large-type biblical texts. At the nearer table a 
troubled-looking man was sorting out papers, tearing 
up some and thrusting the pieces into his pocket, 
and putting others m his hat. After Ronald had 
looked well round the room, not forgetting to watch the 
people who kept walking through or peeping in at the 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


69 

door for a moment, he glanced at the clock. Only five 
minutes to seven. After all, ten minutes was not much 
to be late ; it is so easy to be a few minutes behind 
time. It was rather cold, though, so he thought he 
might as well go into the waiting-room again. He took 
a chair beside the man who was sorting papers, and 
without thinking what he was doing, fixed his eyes 
upon the letters in front of him, a proceeding which 
the owner of them evidently resented, for, thrusting 
them all into his hat, he carried them to the other side 
of the room. 

For several minutes Ronald sat patiently watching 
the doors. The conversation of the Jews by the window 
had become so excited that they had both risen to their 
feet, 'waking up the old gentleman beside them, and 
they now walked out. The old man’s eyes followed 
them with a look of disgust, and then, taking out his 
watch, he started to his feet, and hurriedly seizing his 
hat and umbrella, rushed out of the room, apparently 
in time to catch his train, as he did not return. 

Suddenly the idea occurred to Ronald that there 
might be another waiting-room. It was ten minutes 
past seven. How fearful, if Lady Atherley should 
have been waiting in some other room all this 
time, or, worse still, if she should have got tired of 
waiting and gone home. He walked out and took a 
rapid survey of the station. No ; it seemed unlikely 
that she could have made any mistake about the 
meeting-place ; at any rate, she was not in the station. 
He hurried back to his post again. The old gentleman 
who had been reading the Standard had discovered the 
damage which* his son had been doing to the roll of 
texts, and was scolding him for it. 

The two old ladies were gone. The young lovers 
who had sat next to them were just leaving the room 
with mournful faces. The young girls in the opposite 
corner of the room were still talking and laughing, but 
the children with them had finished their ginger-bread, 
and were now sleeping uncomfortably. A widow in 
deep mourning with tearful eyes had just come in with 
a boy in a new midshipman’s uniform, and sitting 
down took his hand in hers and talked to him in short, 
low sentences, interrupted by pauses. The country 


70 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


people on the left side of the room were still sitting with 
the same expression on their faces. Ronald sat down 
next to the lady, who, like himself, was constantly 
watching the clock. The indignation depicted upon 
her countenance was intense. A young man of stylish 
appearance, but scarcely more than two or three-and- 
twenty, entered. She started to her feet, her eyes 
flashing and her hand clenched. But she managed to 
get out of the room before her wrath burst forth. 
Then Ronald heard, “ It is most disgraceful,” as they 
walked away together. The young girl in the grey 
veil was still sitting in her place, and looking at the floor 
with an expression of patient modesty which was very 
charming. 

An elderly man who had walked through the room 
once or twice, staring hard at her, now took a seat 
beside her, and after a few minutes Ronald was 
surprised to see him walk across the room with her and 
go out, while he heard her say, “ Well, I think the 
Continental Hotel will give us a better dinner.” The 
clock, ticking on with the same low, monotonous sound, 
now pointed to half-past seven. Ronald could sit still 
no longer. Now, for the first time, he thought of 
the possibility of Lady Atherley having repented 
of her promise to come. How long should he 
wait — till eight, till nine, till the station closed ? 
He knew so little of her or her habits. He felt 
faint and thirsty, and longed to go out to the 
bar to get a glass of sherry, but it was so late now 
that he dared not. Lady Atherley might come now 
and look in at the waiting-room at any moment, and 
then if she did not see him at once she would be sure 
to conclude that he was tired of waiting, and had left. 
He could only go out to the front again, and walk up 
and down. One of the ladies of the pavement had 
found the young private of the “ Blues ” too handsome 
to be resisted, so she had spoken to him, and now, much 
to his delight, she was walking away with her arm 
through his. 

It was very chilly. Ronald walked up and down 
more rapidly, taking a wider beat, and going right down 
as far as the outer gates, where a Frenchwoman greeted 
him with a ^^DiUs done. Monsieur ” the first time he came 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


71 


near her, and each time he passed her made him some 
offer more familiar than the last. Ronald was 
growing every moment more impatient. Every two or 
three minutes he would hurry into the waiting-room. 
How he longed for the stolid patience of those country 
people, who looked as if they were quite content to sit 
there for the remainder of their lives. Now a cheery- 
looking red-faced old gentleman in a thick great-coat, 
with a woollen muffler round his neck, and his arms laden 
with various parcels, carhe in, and was greeted with a cry 
of delight by the four young girls, who took his parcels 
from him, and, dragging the two little children with 
them, followed him out of the waiting-room, all talking 
and laughing together. Ronald’s anxiety was growing 
unbearable. Twenty minutes to eight — was it any use 
waiting any longer ? He walked out once more ; a 
victoria with a pair of handsome bays was just entering 
the gates. A tall lady and a child were sitting in it. 
Could it be she ? Was it not unwise to stand out there 
where the coachman and footman would see him speak 
to her ? 

He darted into the waiting-room again and stood 
close to the door. In a minute or two a footman in a 
handsome livery came into the room. Ronald’s heart 
beat quickly. “ She has sent him in,” he thought ; 
“ will he know me ? ” and he advanced a step ; but the 
footman, taking no notice of him, walked up to an old 
gentleman, and, touching his hat, waited respectfully 
while his master gathered up his stick and gloves, and 
then followed him out to the carriage. As it drove 
away, Ronald’s last hope seemed to go with it. ** How 
could I have been such a fool as to suppose she would 
come,” he thought. “ I might have known that if she 
had a moment to reflect she would never keep her 
promise.” 

“ Here it is a quarter to eight, and I suppose I must 
wait here for at least another half hour, though I know 
she won’t come now.” Oh how he wished he dared to 
go round to her house to ask if anything had happened. 

At that moment a hansom drove up. In the growing 
darkness he could scarcely distinguish the occupant of 
it, but he felt that it was she. Forgetting all the 
measures of prudence which he had intended to adopt 


J 


72 HIS LAST PASSION. 

in order to prevent their meeting being observed, he 
stepped forward to the hansom and held out his hand. 
Lady Atherley sprang lightly from the cab. Ronald 
took off his hat with much the same bow as he would 
have given to a perfect stranger. 

“You are cross,” said Lady Atherley, quickly. 

“ No, but I fear you have come to tell me that some- 
thing has gone wrong.” 

“ No, I haven’t ; it is all right.” 

Ronald hailed another hansom, and they drove oft' 
to the Holborn Restaurant. As soon as they were in 
the cab. Lady Atherley said : — 

“ I am afraid you have been waiting a long time. I 
hope you did not mind it much.” 

“ Oh, never mind about that since you' are here 
now,” answered Ronald, taking both her hands in his. 
“ I felt your not coming, and 1 feared you would not 
come, but now I have forgotten that. I have no room 
for any feeling but that of happiness now.” 

“You are awfully good, but I really could not help 
it. You know one isn’t always free. People came in. 
Of course, because I wanted them to go they sat like 
stones. It’s always like that, isn’t it ? ” and with a 
little silvery laugh, which showed her white teeth, she 
leant back in the cab and pressed his hand. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A LADY OF FASHION. 

When Lady Atherley hinted that the lateness of her 
arrival was due to the fact that she was not free, she 
said that which was literally true, though her bondage 
was not quite of that inevitable character which she 
had led Ronald to believe. It was equally true that 
she had been detained by visitors, for Ronald had 
scarcely left the house when two gentlemen drove up 


HIS LAST PASSION. 73 

to the door, and the footman announced “ Prince 
Niesczewski and Captain Greville.” 

The former was a tall, dark man, with a huge black 
moustache, very small grey eyes, a prominent nose, 
and sunken cheeks of a sallow hue. He was slight, 
and might have been of any age from thirty-five to 
fifty. Though he was ugly, still his ugliness was of 
that interesting kind which obliges one to look at it 
again and again, when a much handsomer face would 
make no impression ; his hands were very white and 
small, and his dress (frock-coat and shepherd’s- 
plaid trousers) was one of Poole’s chefs d'anvre^ 
and when he sat down his trousers were raised enough 
to show a very neat foot clad in a bright yellow silk" 
sock and admirably-fitting patent leather shoe. 

Captain Greville was rather a contrast to his friend. 
He was scarcely more than five feet eight or nine 
inches in height. He was about forty-five, but 
looked younger. His yellow moustache was small 
and neat, and turned up at the points. His features 
were very regular, and he had frank, laughing blue 
eyes. He wore a rough brown tweed suit, which 
fitted his well-proportioned figure loosely, but yet 
showed it off to great advantage. 

“ We’ve come round to see if you will dine with us, 
aud go to the Lyceum Theatre to-night ? ” said he, 
sitting down on an ottoman with the air of a man who 
is quite at hqme, and putting his right foot on his 
left knee. “ We both feel rather dull, and so we thought 
you would brighten us up a bit.” 

“Well, my dear Arthur, I am awfully sorry you 
should just have pitched upon to-night, because I am 
going to dine with my si^er Kate, and, indeed, I 
ought to be dressing now. I should so much have 
liked to come.” 

“ Oh, bother Kate ; send round to her and say you 
will go to her to-morrow ; and now just run upstairs, 
and Niesczewski and I win go down into your boudoir 
and have a cigar, while you are dressing.” 

“ But I really can’t come to-night, Arthur, for I pro- 
mised Kate faithfully to go to her, and she is awfully 
depressed to-day, and has a number of things to tell 
me.” 


74 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


“ Oh, nonsense, Connie ; you don’t mean to say that 
you are going to send us away alone — we can’t hear of 
It, can we, Boguslav ? ” 

“ Of course, if. Lady Atherley can be persuaded 
to accompany us, we shall have a delightful 
evening, instead of an ordinary and possibly dull one ; 
but great as would be the pleasure which she would 
give us by agreeing to come with us, I do not fail to 
see that she is very anxious to keep her engagement 
to-night, and therefore I cannot be so selfish as to use 
any arguments to induce her to change her determina- 
tion.” 

“ Thank you. Prince,” said Lady Atherley, admiring 
the tact which had enabled him to guess that she was 
really unwilling to go with them. “ I trust you will 
both understand how sorry I am not to be able to come 
with you, and I can only hope that you will both be 
able to renew your invitation shortly on some more 
lucky occasion, for I am sure we should have a very 
jolly evening.” 

“Well, I suppose if you won’t come, you won’t,” 
said Captain Greville, rather huffily. “ Good-bye.” 
And the two men left the room. But they did not go 
out; for on the way down Captain Greville took his 
friend into the dining-room to show him a painting. 

“It is very odd,” he said; “I can’t think why she 
won’t come ; I never knew her refuse to come with me 
before — least of all would she put me off for her sister. 
What do you think of it?” 

“ I think, my poor old fellow,” answered Niesczewski, 
with a foreign accent only just sufficiently perceptible 
to add an additional charm to the sweetness of his 
voice, “that- there is a man in the case. I hope you 
don’t think it brutal of me,” he continued, “to break 
in upon the sweetness of your dream of love 
by so rude a suggestion, but between friends it is better 
to speak plainly, and I can, only tell you that there is a 
Je nesaisquoi about her manner to-day which convinces 
me that your star is no longer in the ascendant.” 

Captain Greville had immense faith in the pene- 
tration of his friend, and therefore these few sentences 
(in spite of the grasseyement which Prince Boguslav 
Niesczewski’s lady friends found so charming) fell 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


75 


harshly on hIs ear. “ Wait here a moment,” he said, 
“I must see her alone”; and he ran upstairs to the 
drawing-room, where Lady Atherley was waiting to hear 
them leave the house before going upstairs to dress. 

“ Connie,” he said, as he burst into the room some- 
what roughly, “ what is the meaning of this ? where 
are you going to-night ? ” 

“ Haven’t I told you that I am going to my sister’s.” 

“Yes, but who is to be there ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Oh, Connie, there is some mystery here, I am sure. 
You would not dine with her when I ask you to come 
with me, unless there were something in it. Tell me 
what it is. I insist upon knowing.” 

“ Arthur,” said Lady Atherley, drawing herself up 
to her full height, “ I have told you I am going to Kate 
to-night ; whether you believe it or not, matters little 
to me. Go and dine with her yourself if you wish, and 
then you can find out for yourself whether I am there 
or not, and you can see who else is there. At any rate, 
I tell you I am going there, because it suits me that 
you should believe it. That should be enough for 
you.” 

“ But, darling Connie,” he objected, “ I don’t want 
to be nasty to you, only do tell me, is there another 
man in the case ? I know it is foolish to be jealous, 
but I have loved you now for so many years, and I 
can’t bear to think of it. Have you ceased to care for 
me?” 

He had taken both her hands in his ; she bent for- 
ward and kissed him. 

“You silly old boy,” she said, “ I will never give you 
up for anyone in the world. Be satisfied.” 

The great charm of her manner soothed his jealous 
fears, and he asked her forgiveness. It was granted at 
once, but it took some time to talk about. She was 
longing that he would go, but she would not let him 
see her anxiety to get rid of him, for she would have 
been sorry to lose his friendship ; and so, while he 
talked on, she was thinking over their flirtation, and 
wondering whether it had at last come to an end. 

It was an old story. Years and years ago, when she 
was quite a little girl, she had seen him for the first 


76 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


time. He was a distant cousin of hers, and she remem- 
bered how he had come round in his new ensign’s 
uniform to say good-bye to her mother before starting 
for the Crimea. Then she had seen him again when 
he came back from China, and seemed to think much 
of himself, and was always snubbing her. 

After that he had been abroad again, and they did 
not meet until she was seventeen. And how his 
manner had changed by that time. It was her turn to 
be grand and mighty then. And when he proposed for 
her she was half sorry for him. He pleaded his love so 
earnestly, she did not know whether to laugh or 
to cry, so she ended by laughing, as that was easiest 
to her in those days, but then she had not dis- 
covered that she really liked him until her mother 
told her that he was a poor captain with nothing 
but his pay and was consequently not to be thought of. 
But she had thought of him, and if only they could 
have foreseen that his aunt would leave him all 
her money, and that the death of his elder brothers 
would some day put him in possession of Gwensyllt ; 
but then you can’t marry a penniless soldier on the 
chance of his relatives conveniently dropping out of 
the way, and if you did they’d be sure to live for ever. 
From the time she first entered her teens her mother 
and sisters had instilled into her mind the absolute 
necessity of marrying money, so that she scarcely 
thought it more possible to marry a man without 
it than to look for a husband within the proscribed 
degrees of kindred. And so when she first met 
Sir Algernon Atherley at dinner, and heard of 
his property in Lancashire, his shooting box in 
Scotland, his horses at Epsom, and his houses 
in London, she was satisfied to overlook the fact that 
he might have been her father, and when she came 
home that night and her mother asked her how she 
liked him, she had answered, “ Oh, he’s well enough. 
I shall marry him.” And she did. 

For a short time she was pleased with her newly 
acquired wealth. She liked horses, she doted on 
dances, she adored dress. These tastes she was now 
able to indulge in to her heart’s content. But when 
she grew accustomed to her new amusements, she 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


77 


began to think that she would rather have married 
some younger and handsomer man ; and when, 
after about a year, the expected advent of a child had 
made her figure so fearful that she was foolishly ashamed 
to go out, and had consequently to spend a good many 
evenings alone with Sir Algernon, she found out that 
he had a nasty, crochety temper of his own, and she 
grew somehow to think of him more as a rather 
disagreeable father than as a husband. 

It was about this time that she again met Arthur 
Greville. She had never seen him since the day 
that she refused his offer of marriage. It was a 
lovely afternoon in early spring, and her husband, 
who sometimes lunched at home in those days, 
had been very disagreeable all the morning — not 
that she cared about that, at least she wouldn’t 
for worlds have him think she did — but still 
when he went out she felt rather upset, so she 
opened the window and sat behind the curtain, look- 
ing out at the bright April sunshine, and thinking 
about so many things, that at last her eyes brimmed 
over and two large tears trickled down her cheeks and 
fell upon the piece of embroidery which she had been 
pretending to work at for the last twelve months. She 
had admiration enough to turn any girl’s head — and 
money? — ^yes, plenty of it — but not one heart to love 
her. 

“ Poor Arthur," she thought, “ he did love me so 
truly ; what a fool I have been ! and now, no doubt, he 
despises me, for he must know that I have sold myself.’’ 
But her set now was not his set ; she was not likely 
to meet him', and he evidently did not intend to call 
upon her. Just then she noticed a man coming along 
the street. “ How like him,’’ she thought; a minute 
later he was almost opposite the window ; she sprang 
to her feet — letting the embroidery fall on the floor — 
and tapped on the window pane. He turned his head. 
“ It is he,’’ she cried, and she beckoned him to come up- 
stairs. But as soon as he knocked at the door she 
repented. What would he think of her in her present 
condition ? she was such a sight now. 

But he was so kind in his manner — he didn’t really 
seem to notice anything; though, of course, he must 


78 


. HIS LAST PASSION. 


have, for she was quite certain it would be twins, 
at least. He was rather grave, though, and dis- 
tant ; and when he called her Lady Atherley at every 
moment she felt that she could not address him by 
his Christian name, though she longed to do so. Though 
the tears still glistened on her cheeks she was all 
laughter and smiles now, and her face, which never was 
so pretty before, he thought, reminded him of the April 
sunshine and raindrops outside. 

An hour flew swiftly by. There was so much to tell 
on both sides. What had he been doing with himself ? 
He had married. She looked on him so reproachfully 
when she heard this that he felt almost like a criminal, 
and they both forgot that it was all her fault. Of 
course she wanted to know all about his wife. “ Was 
she lovely ?” “Of course he doted on her,” and a 
thousand more questions. 

He had married, he said, for no reason that he could 
well understand — perhaps because his wife was so very 
unlike her — perhaps because she had been very sympa- 
thetic during his great trouble. 

“She is not pretty, but she is a thoroughly good, 
homely creature, bent on being a good wife to me,” 
said he, “ and please God, I shall do my duty to her.” 

“How nice it is to see you again,” said Lady 
Atherley; “you must bring Mrs. Greville, if she won’t 
hate me, and you must often come to see me, for you 
know I have always liked you so much, and we can be 
great friends now. We must forget the past — at least 
anything in it that is disagreeable — and be like brother 
and sister.” 

And Arthur Greville did come often, and he did bring 
his wife, but she did not care for Lady Atherley, and 
Lady Atherley declared that she glared at her and 
hated her, and after a time Mrs. Greville gave up 
coming, except to formal dinner parties, and Arthur 
Greville and Lady Atherley became great friends — only 
their intimacy was nOt quite like that between a brother 
and sister. There was a strong flavour of romance 
about it. 

But it- was not until after the birth of her second 
child that anything worse than romance came of this 
friendship. How it had happened she never knew. They 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


79 


had long believed that they loved each other. They 
had been to tlieatres together, and had dined together 
whenever they had had the opportunity ; so often, in 
fact, that they both thought there was no danger about 
it. And at last one night, neither of them knew how, 
the friendship had ceased to be platonic, for Lady 
Atherley seemed to care less and less for her husband. 

For more than a year Constance had found in this 
passion a solace for every domestic annoyance — a 
complement for every void of her existence. Then 
occurred the accident by which Captain Greville 
had been suddenly endowed with a large fortune. 
Hitherto his opportunities of being alone with 
her had been comparatively rare, and both of them 
argued (with a not uncommon misconception of the 
basis of real happiness) that if they found so much 
pleasure in each other’s society during the infrequent 
occasions which circumstances allowed, they needed 
only increased facilities of meeting to obtain more and 
more happiness. 

And now commenced in Lady Atherley’s mind a 
longing to visit seaside places, a longing which Sir 
Algernon was loth to gratify, for he hated the sea and 
everything pertaining thereto. But when her elder 
sister, Mrs. Huntingdon, who had lately been left a 
widow, offered to take her to Bournemouth, he was 
glad to let her go and obtain the change she desired 
without bothering him. 

It naturally happened that Captain Greville had 
chosen the same time to visit Bournemouth, but as he 
invariably returned to town from Friday till Monday, 
the only days during which Sir Algernon could get 
away, and as he lived at a different hotel, appearances 
were preserved, and everything went on happily. Of 
course, Mrs. Huntingdon was not long blind to her 
sister’s faults, but she was badly off, and it suited her 
in every way to be on the best of terms with the 
Atherleys, for at their house she had opportunities 
of meeting many men eligible enough to be possible 
successors to Mr. Huntingdon, and the dinners and 
presents which her sister gave her were not to be 
despised by a woman of her limited means. She 
therefore contented herself with giving Lady Atherley 


8o 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


a few good-huiTioured words of warning, and discreetly 
retired to her own room whenever she thought herself 
d& trop. 

But these clandestine meetings soon seemed unsatis- 
factory, and Lady Atherley and her cousin dreamed of 
being quite alone together. He was now rich. He 
accordingly bought a yacht, and when Sir Algernon 
returned to town on Monday morning, his wife and 
Captain Greville started off with a fair breeze for the 
coast of France, leaving Kate Huntingdon on guard at 
Bournemouth, while the two, secure from all surprise, 
passed two or three days in some small town in Nor- 
mandy, taking care to be back in England by Saturday 
morning. 

But two or three years of this intimacy led to the 
natural result. The romance of the situation gradually 
wore off, and they now regarded each other almost as 
bound to each other. The enforced separation which 
they were occasionally compelled to undergo prevented 
their relations from falling quite within the boundary of 
the common-place, but still they both found that it was 
rather pleasant than otherwise to make acquaintance 
with any travellers they might come across whenever 
they felt that they could do so with any reasonable 
degree of safety. 

So things had gone on until Lady Athesrley began to 
find the old weariness returning upon her, and Arthur 
Greville was no longer able to dispel it. In the gaiety 
of a London season she sought in vain for any mitiga- 
tion of her ennui. The admiration she received palled 
upon her. Her ambition was to inspire a grande passion. 
But though she often met men who at first sight seemed 
likely to conceive such a passion for her, yet. it always 
turned out that they either desired her beauty from 
personal motives or wished to enjoy a little meaningless 
flirtation, or, worse still, that they were anxious through 
her to make use of her husband’s influence. 

One evening Captain Greville had taken her and 
Mrs. Huntingdon to dine at the “ Continental.’* As 
they entered the hall a tall man raised his hat with a 
peculiarly graceful air, and was passing on into the 
dining-room, when Captain Greville shouted out, 
“ Why, Boguslav, when did you come back ? Let me 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


8i 


introduce you to Lady Atherley ; you have both heard 
of each other often. Connie, this is Prince Niesczewski. 
I’m so glad you’ve met at last ; of course, you will dine 
with us ? ” 

“ With the greatest goodwill in the world,” said 
the Prince. “ I have only returned to England 
to-day, and I felt it was useless to look for any 
companion to-night, as no one expected me, and 
so I had just made up my mind to have a melancholy 
dinner by myself. Ah, Lady Atherley, if Captain 
Greville possessed the talent of word painting, I ought 
to know you well ; but I find he is but an indifferent 
artist.” 

Lady Atherley did not answer. 

“ How plain he is,” she was thinking, “but how his 
face lights up when he speaks.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

A FOREIGN PRINCE. 

Prince Boguslav Niesczewski was the last represen- 
tative of an ancient Austrian family. He had come to 
England at the age of fifteen to spend a year at Eton, 
and there he had imbibed so strong a taste for English 
sports that he had returned to this country as soon as 
he was master of his own fortunes. At Eton he had 
conceived a great admiration for Arthur Greville, who 
was captain of the cricket eleven and winner of most of 
the athletic contests of the year, and the friendship 
which there arose between them had been renewed 
on his return. Now that he was grown up his love oJ 
boating, cricket, and football had been replaced by a 
passion for hunting, racing, and shooting ; and although 
he sometimes spent a few months in Vienna, he made 
England his home. 

His wealth and rank made him an object ol 
special interest to every mother -y^ith marriageable 

F 


82 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


daughters. But, after encouraging the hopes of 
several of them, he had disappointed them all by 
marrying, at thirty-five, a pretty litttle orphan girl, 
who refused him twice before he finally persuaded 
her to take him, and ended by falling desperately in 
love with him, and becoming the most jealous of wives, 
after all. 

But though he and Greville were both married, the 
friendship between them never diminished. On the 
contrary, neither of them had a secret from the other, 
and Greville had poured all his sorrows about his 
heartless Constance into the Prince’s sympathetic ear ; 
and later, when she had beckoned him up from the 
street that sunny April afternoon, he had no sooner left 
her than he jumped into a cab and went straight to his 
friend with a full account of the interview. “Take 
care,” said the Prince, when he had heard his friend 
to the end; “that woman is going to love you; it is 
very dangerous for both of you.” 

Afterwards, when Greville would come to him and 
give him a joyful account of some meeting with Lady 
Atherley, the Prince would shake his head sadly and 
say, “ I wish you would fall in love with some shining 
light of the stage, or of the dcmi monde. This woman 
is not good enough for you.” 

And then Greville would be angry, and accuse his 
friend of blasphemy. 

At last one day Niesczewski came to his friend 
and said, “ Laugh at me, Arthur — I am in love — and 
with whom you will never guess, not in three, not in 
twenty, not in a lifetime. If I were ashamed to tell 
you anything I should be ashamed to confess this.” 

“ Well,” answered Greville, “ tell me all about it, and 
you will find me more sympathetic than you are.” 

“ Know, then, that my Dulcinea is a flower girl in 
Covent Garden Market. 

“ Why, hang it all ** 

“ You don’t understand me — how should you ? 
No, Arthur; call me a fool — a madman, if you 
like: — but I really love that girl. When I first saw her 
I thought she was pretty, and I bought a flower from 
her, and gave her some chaff, which she answered so 
prettily that I gave her a sovereign. When I got home 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


83 


I could not help thinking of her; so, hoping to put an 
end to this infatuation, I decided to spare no efforts or 
expense in improving her condition. When I went 
to see her, she had put on a simple, tweed dress which 
I had sent her, with clean collar and cuffs, and 
her golden hair was just twisted up neatly on the top 
of her head, and yet she looked so graceful that 1 
thought I had never seen anyone better dressed, and 
to-day I have just bought a little furnished house at 
Brompton, and told her to order whatever she wants.” 

“ Well, this is one of the most extraordinary fancies 
I ever heard of,” answered Greville, “ but you can 
afford it ; and though, of course, a girl with such 
antecedents is likely to spend more than a duchess, 
you will doubtless get tired of her soon, so that I 
suppose I must not be too severe upon .you.” 

“ I am not so sure of my getting over it at once,” 
said the Prince, “for I am going to bring her out on 
the stage. I have seen the manager of the Frivolity 
Theatre, who as you know can refuse me nothing, and 
he has promised to give her a good part in a burlesque. 
If she shows any talent she is to have the chief part.” 

“ And if she should prove utterly incapable of learn- 
ing it ? ” asked Greville. 

“ Why, then she is to have a part written for her, or 
rather devised for her, in which she has not a word to 
say. All she will have to do will be to laugh and look 
pretty, and as she does both a ravir there is only the 
dress to be thought about, and I am planning one for her.” 

“ If you attend to that department she is sure to look 
her best.” 

“Yes, I will answer for that. But you know, Arthur, 
my theory is that even if she should spend more than a 
duchess, I shall be wiser to choose her than to select a 
person of that less extravagant rank. Depend upon 
it a woman of position is the worst in every way for 
such a situation. But we shall never agree upon that, I 
fear, at least pot until you have conquered your passion 
for Lady Atherley.” 

“ And that day is far distant,” answered Greville, 
“ whereas I trust your infatuation has already reached 
its highest point, and will wane as rapidly as it has 
waxed.” 


84 


HIS LAST PASSION* 


But the Prince’s infatuation had not yet reached 
its apogee, for his new pvoUg&e came out on the stage a 
. few days later, and proved a success ; she had a good 
voice, some idea of humour, a lovely figure, and a cer- 
tain amount of vulgarity which was not out of place in 
burlesque. Then she did not sing very much out of tune, 
and she soon learnt to dance a break-down with a good 
deal of spirit. Such a woman was sure to attract men, 
and Prince Niesczewski was proud to see them crowd- 
ing round her ; but before long a suspicion crossed his 
mind that she was beginning to listen to some of them 
rather too favourably. Then London was astonished 
and scandalized to hear that the Prince had announced 
to his wife his intention of leaving her here with a 
handsome allowanqe, and taking Hettie Vandeleur, as 
she was called, to make a tour of the world. At first 
people looked upon the story as a silly piece of gossip, 
but as it became known that it was an accomplished 
fact, and not merely a paragraph in the society 
journals, everybody realised the fact that they had 
never expected anything different from Niesczewski — 
“these foreigners are so utterly unreasonable, you 
know.” 

And how the ninety and nine mothers who had failed 
to hook this big fish revelled in the story. How they 
turned it this way and that way, and embellished it 
with details only fit to be whispered at five o’clock tea ; 
and how they professed to rejoice that when he paid 
attention to their Graces, or Georgianas, or Eleanors, 
they had at once told those darling girls that they must 
never think of marrying a foreigner, a Roman Catholic, 
etc., etc. The Princess alone seemed to bear the story 
with equanimity. 

“He will get oyer this fancy,” she said, “ and then 
ne will come back to me.” 

“ How sweet and forgiving,” said some, 

“ How spiritless,” said others. 

“ How wise of her,” said a few. 

“ It is positively disgusting of her,” said many; “she 
does not say one word to show that she disapproves 
of it. It is no wonder her husband has behaved so 
badly since she doesn’t seem to have any horror of 
vice.” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


85 

But soon the world said no more about it. Months 
passed by and no one heard anything of the Prince 
until this night when he turned up at the “ Con- 
tinental ” and sat down to dinner with Captain Greville, 
Lady Atherley, and Mrs. Huntingdon. The dinner 
passed off very pleasantly. Niesczewski was delighted 
to get back to London. Greville was glad to see his 
old friend, and Lady Atherley and her sister were 
charmed to meet this man of whom they had heard so 
much. 

After dinner the conversation grew more confidential. 
Captain Greville and Lady Atherley began to call each 
other by their Christian names. Mrs. Huntingdon 
was trying to make her eyes as expressive as possible 
when she looked at the Prince. 

“Tell us, Boguslav,” said Greville, leaning back in 
his chair and lighting a cigarette, “ how you came to 
leave us so suddenly ? ” 

“You remember my infatuation for Hettie Vandeleur,” 
began the Prince, “ an actress at the Frivolity, whom 
you may have seen,” he continued, turning to Lady 
Atherley with an explanatory gesture. “ But I think, 
Arthur; I’ll tell you about it ‘under four eyes,’ as we 
say in Vienna.” 

“ No, no,” cried Lady Atherley, with her silvery 
laugh, “ we are dying to know all about it ; you know 
how tantalising it is to hear half a story, and though it 
was very indiscreet of Arthur he has told me all the 
first part about your romantic meeting in Covent 
Garden.” 

“ Don’t talk about indiscretion, Connie,” said Captain 
Greville, looking rather annoyed. 

“ For goodness sake, don’t quarrel, it is so dull,” said 
Mrs. Huntingdon, with a feigned expression of ennui 
upon her face; “besides, you are interrupting Prince 
Niesczewski.” 

“ Well,” said the Prince, with the slightest touch of 
irony in his ’tone, “ it seems you are bound to hear it 
second hand in any case, and since the ladies desire to 
hear the confession of my follies, I am only too de- 
lighted to gratify their wish. When I first conceived 
this strange passion for Miss Vandeleur, I was too much 
in love to take much trouble in concealing it. I at- 


86 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


tended every performance at the Frivolity, and my 
brougham was always at the stage-door to take her 
away when her part was over. People soon began 
to talk of it, and though I made some efforts to keep 
my faults concealed from my wife, I was not very 
sorry when some good friend informed her of them. 
The truth is, that I could not bear the deception 
of it. To come home to her day after day with false- 
hood in my heart was sickening to me, and, therefore, 
on the first hint which she gave me I confessed all. 
* Boguslav,’ she said, ‘ you must give up this woman.' 
I refused, and told her how impossible it would be for 
me to conquer my new-born love ; but I added that 
she might keep to her own suite of apartments — that 
we need not meet except in the drawing-room and 
before the world. This offer she rejected scornfully. 
‘ I am your lawful wife,’ she said, ‘ and so long as I 
bear that title I will be your wife, and, not a 
puppet, to be brought out and placed at the head 
of your table, like some piece of family plate, 
when you have guests. No ; if you are so weak that 
you cannot overcome this disgraceful fancy you can at 
least treat me with that deference which, as my 
husband, you owe me, and conceal from me and the 
world the shameful ties which you have contracted. 
If you are not prepared to do this I shall leave your 
house and return to my mother.’ I thought over all 
that my wife had said to me, and I found that it was 
not in my nature to keep up this daily deception ; but, 
on the other hand, I thought it unfair that any fault of 
mine should deprive the Princess of that comfort 
and position to which, as my - wife, she was 
justly entitled. I accordingly went to my bankers 
and ordered them to honour her drafts as they 
would my own, and, sending her a cheque-book, 
and a letter in which I thanked her for her past conduct 
to me, told her the result of my cogitations. Then 
I started with Hettie to make a tour of some months’ 
duration, according as the fancy took us. The tour is 
over and here I am in London again.” 

“ And I sincerely hope you have repented of your 
folly,” said Greville. 

“ It may be folly,” said Lady Atherley, “ but to my 


H18 LAST PASSION 


87 

mind there is something grander in it than in half the 
wisdoms of our every-day life. I have seen Miss 
Vandeleur, and I own I did not think her capable of 
inspiring so great a passion, but, of course, it is difficult 
for one woman to judge of another. You men are 
generally so selfish that it is ^uite refreshing to hear of 
one of you giving up anything for a woman’s sake. 
Don’t you think so, Kate ? ” 

“ Delightfully romantic,” answered Mrs. Huntingdon, 
“ you are quite like Armand in the ‘ Dame aux 
Camelias ; * but what has become of Miss Vandeleur ? I 
shall certainly go and see her as soon as she begins to 
act again.” 

“Oh, yes;” said Lady Atherley, “won’t it be 
interesting ?” 

“ I fear she will never act again,” said Niesczewski, 
sadly. 

“ But why, she is not dead, is she ?” asked Greville. 

“ No. The story is a sad one for me, but I will tell 
it you shortly. We went to Russia first. There I got 
into a duel about her with a foolish boy. I fired in the 
air the first time, but he insisted on another shot. I 
aimed at his feet the next time and hit him ; but he 
was not satisfied. The seconds interfered, but he 
said he would go on till I gave up all pretentions 
to Hettie, whom he meant to marry. I could not stand 
up to be shot at all day, for although he was evidently 
unused to handle a pistol he might hit me by chance — 
so I aimed at his right hand. Unfortunately my ball 
struck the barrel of his pistol, and glancing off it pene- 
trated his eyeball, and entered the brain. We left 
Russia after that, and went to Italy, where we were 
very happy, but after a time Hettie said she would like 
to see Paris. 

“ One night we went to the ‘ Folies Marigny.’ Hettie 
was delighted, and said she would give anything to get 
an engagement there. I was so infatuated at that time 
that I could not understand why she should want to 
act in such a theatre, where the plays were stupid and 
the acting of the poorest; but I procured an engage- 
ment for her. It was not long before I discovered 
her motive. One morning I went to her apartment 
much earlier than usual, and there I found one 


8b 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


of the low comedians, with one of her satin 
cloaks thrown round his legs, drinking chocolate 
with her. I kicked the brute out ; but Hettie sulked 
all day, and that night she did not turn up at the theatre. 
For some days I looked for her in vain ; but after a week 
I heard that she had been arrested by the police. It 
appears that her wretched paramour could not remain 
faithful to her even for that short time. Hettie was j ealous. 
She stooped to crime to get rid of her competitor. She 
procured some vitriol, and tried to throw it in her rival’s 
face. She was only partially successful — a struggle en- 
sued in which both women were fearfully burned. Hettie 
lost one eye, and will wear a fearful scar on one cheek 
till she dies. The other woman is even worse dis- 
figured. I have settled a pension on Hettie when she 
comes out of prison, but I can never bear to see her 
again, for her scars would constantly remind me of her 
perfidy and ingratitude.” 

Niesczewski ceased, a shadow seemed to have spread 
over his features, his eyes were fixed on vacancy, and 
for the moment he was unconscious of the presence of 
his hearers. 

Lady Atherley was the first to break the silence. 

“ What a hideous ending to your romance,” she said. 
“ And do you think of staying any time here ? ” she 
asked, after a moment’s pause, during which she 
thought, “That is tlie sort of passion I should like 
to inspire — a love that throws everything to the winds, 
and is proud to acknowledge itself in the face of day.” 

“ I hope to make London my home once more,” 
answered the Prince, and, if possible, to forget this 
miserable story.” 

“ Ah, what a pity your love was so ill bestowed,” 
said Mrs. Huntingdon, with one of her most winning 
smiles. 

“Yes, if you had only chosen some lady instead of 
this low-born girl, how much happier you would have 
been, both of you,” said Lady Atherley. 

“ I am not so sure of that,” said the Prince, fixing 
his dark eyes upon her with a glance which seemed to 
penetrate her soul. 

She returned his gaze with an expression of trustful 
sympathy on her face. The tears rose in her eyes, 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


89 


and trickled slowly down her cheeks. She bent her 
head low, and, dipping her table-napkin in the rose- 
water in her finger-glass, she managed to wash the 
tears away unnoticed. She was thinking what a pity 
it was that Prince Niesczewski had not loved her instead 
of this wretched flower-girl. “ And how well his 
romantic nature would have suited me,” she fancied. 
“ Arthur is awfully good and kind, of course, but he is 
so matter-of-fact.” 

“ And how about your wife ? ” asked Greville. 
** Will you see her ? ” 

“ Yes, I hope so,” answered the Prince, not noticing 
Lady Atherley’s remark, “ I had the courage to leave 
her for Hettie Vandeleur. Surely I shall have the 
courage to go back to her and say that I recognise my 
error. You, Arthur, will go to her to-morrow for me 
and ask her when she will see me. I have no intention 
of asking her to receive me as her husband again. But 
I feel that I owe it to her to let her have the satisfac- 
tion of knowing that at least my desertion of her has 
not been a gain to me.” 

“ I will go with all my heart,” answered Greville. “ I 
own that I was not so pleased at the account of 
your leaving her as these ladies seem to have 
been. It may have been honest, though I’m 
hanged if I think it redounded to your honour. 
But knowing your character as I do, I learn that 
you intend going back to your wife with feelings of 
unmixed satisfaction. It may not be romantic, but I 
think it is the manly thing to do.” 

The party now broke up. When they got back to 
Grosvenor Square, Lady Atherley and her sister 
discussed their new acquaintance with Captain 
Greville. Lady Atherley thought him deligntful. 
Mrs. Huntingdon could not help acknowledging the 
great charm of his manner, but she thought he was too 
like Mephistopheles, and would make a first rate 
“ demon ” in a novel. But both of them agreed that 
there was something grand in his leaving his wife. 
“ It was so honest, so straightforward.” 

“ But deuced rough on the Princess, though,” said 
Captain Greville. You don’t look at the thing fairly,” he 
went on ; “of course Niesczewski is a most fascinating 


go 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


man, and so all you women fall into raptures about him, 
and sympathise with him at once. N ow I have known him 
since he was a child, and I know that . he is one of the 
best fellows that ever breathed ; but he is rather selfish, 
and then he is so Quixotic that, like the old knight of 
La Mancha, his determination to do the right thing 
often falls very hard on those around him. You only 
think of his honesty, but suppose for a moment that 
either of you were the victim of it. How would it be 
if he had married one of you ? *’ 

“ It would never have been at all,’* answered Lady 
Atherley, “ for if I had married a man like that I 
should have known how to keep him.” 

“ Yes, of course, one would,” chimed in Mrs. 
Huntingdon. 

“ Possibly,” said Greville, incredulously. 

“No, not possibly, but certainly,” retorted Lady 
Atherley, growing rather cross. “ Why, my dear 
Arthur, do you think you would have been tempted to 
leave me if we had been husband and wife ? Haven’t 
we been friends and not casual friends, but the most 
intimate of friends for years ? Don’t you know all my 
faults ? and have you ever felt for one moment that any 
actress or flower-girl in the world was capable of taking 
you away from me ?” 

“ Hush, Connie,” said Mrs. Huntingdon, who always 
made a point of ignoring the terms of intimacy which 
existed between Captain Greville and her sister, and 
always gave her some gentle admonition when she 
was speaking too openly. “ How flattered Prince 
Niesczewski ought to be if he knew that we were 
getting so animated over him.” 

’ “ He must be accustomed to that by this time,” said 
Greville, “for women always do get animated over 
him. But you know, Connie, you must not think that, 
because I have never changed towards you in all these 
years that he never would. He and I are so very 
different.” 

“Oh, you are,” retorted Lady Atherley, “more’s 
the pity of it. I can’t think what makes you so 
disagreeable to-night ; you are quite bearish ; you 
had better go now and come back in a better temper.” 

“ Temper, Connie, what do you mean ? I never was 


HIS LAST PASSION. Ql 

more cheerful in my life. You don't think IVe shown 
any signs of temper, do you, Kate ? ” 

“Well, I think you are very rude and unkind to 
Connie,” answered Mrs. Huntingdon, who always made 
a point of taking her sister’s part. Lady Atherley, 
finding that her sister sympathised with her, felt^an im- 
mense pity for herself, and the tears rose in her eyes. 
Though Captain Greville could not help thinking her a 
little unreasonable, he felt sorry, and stepped forward to 
take her hand. But she drew it quickly away and left 
the room. 

“I’m awfully sorry,” he said, looking quite discon- 
certed. “ I can’t think what I’ve said. Shall I go up 
and see ? ” 

“ No ; it is very late, and Sir Algernon may be back 
any minute. You had better drive me back now.” 

“ But what did I say ? How did I offend her ? ” 

“ How dense you men are ; but don’t bother about 
it. I think Connie is tired to-night, and will be all right 
to-morrow.” 

The next day Mrs. Huntingdon came round to lunch 
with her sister, and talk over their new acquaintance 
of the night before. 

“ Of course, Arty is the dearest old fellow in the 
world,” said Lady Atherley, “ and I should be a perfect 
brute if I ever gave him up, after all he has done for 
me. But he is so dreadfully prosaic and humdrum. 
Fancy his going to Mrs. Greville and telling her that 
he couldn’t see her any more, because he loved some 
one else. Why, he wouldn’t even get her to give up 
having a dinner-party once, though I warned him that 
I should want him to take me somewhere on that 
evening, and only two or three invitations had been 
sent out, so that she could easily have written to change 
the day.” 

“ Well, but I think he is right, dear. Remember, if 
he made any fuss with his wife, it would most likely 
compromise you.” 

“And what would I care about being compromised 
by a man who was willing to give up everything for 
me. There’s no doubt about it, Englishmen don’t 
understand how to love. F ancy the story of the ‘ Dame 
aux Camelias’ taking place in England — why it ia 


92 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


preposterous” — and Lady Atherley laughed at the 
idea. 

For some time after that, Captain Greville often 
brought his Austrian friend with him, either to 
dinner or to the theatre, and Lady Atherley half 
unconsciously did her best to fascinate him. But 
in vain. He paid her the prettiest compliments, 
and seemed always glad to see her ; but she 
felt that she made no impression whatever upon 
his heart, and whenever they were left alone for a 
moment she felt that a wall of ice grew up between 
them at once, a barrier which her sweetest smiles and 
warmest glances were quite powerless to melt, and so 
the fancy which she had taken for him wore off, and she 
almost hated him whenever he was away, though she 
always felt his wonderful power of fascination whenever 
he spoke to her. She still wished that she could make 
some impression on him, but it was only wounded 
vanity which inspired that wish, and it is most pro- 
bable that if she could have obtained a declaration of 
love from him she would have enjoyed her triumph for 
half an hour and then have rejected his advances with 
scorn. But next to getting him to acknowledge her 
power, she wished to be able to overcome the charm 
which he still exercised over her, and therefore it was 
with a feeling of additional satisfaction that she refused 
the invitation to dine with him and Captain Greville on 
that afternoon of Ronald Macleod’s first visit. 

When at last Captain Greville, somewhat soothed 
and reassured by Lady Atherley’s parting words, went 
down to rejoin his friend, and she heard the door close 
behind them, she looked at the clock and thought, 
“ Poor fellow, he must be at the station now, and I 
have still to dress.” She half thought of keeping on 
the same dress, but that seemed almost too much to 
her, so she persuaded herself that he would rather 
wait a little longer and see her in a more becoming 
costume. She ran upstairs and put on a black silk 
jersey and skirt, a silver collar and earrings to match, 
and while poor Ronald was waiting and wondering at 
Charing Cross Station whether she would come or not 
she was deliberating with her maid as to whether she 
should wear plain black silk stockings with open work 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


93 


fronts or others with little flowers embroidered on them 
in various colours, and whether she should look better 
in the bonnet Madame Elise had made for her with the 
white stephanotis or whether the violets in the bonnet 
her sister had brought from Paris would not set off the 
colour of her hair better. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE HOLBORN RESTAURANT. 

When the hansom stopped opposite the Holbom 
Restaurant, Lady Atherley glanced rapidly round to 
see that none of her acquaintances were passing, and 
then she and Ronald walked along the narrow tesse- 
lated passage which led into the balcony. Here he 
left her for a moment while he went to secure a table. 
It was late and the place was nearly full, but three 
people were just getting up from one of the tables in 
the centre of the balcony, so slipping half-a-crown into 
the waiter’s hand, and telling him to do his best to 
wait well, Ronald hurried back to the entrance, and 
kept Lady Atherley in conversation for a moment 
while the waiter removed the traces of earlier guests. 

“Why did you look around so suspiciously at the 
door ? ” asked Ronald. 

“To see if any of my acquaintances were passing.” 

“ But if you dreaded that why come here at all ? it is 
more likely that you would be seen by thefli in the 
room than when just passing from a hansom to the 
door.” 

“ I don't dread it, but at the same time it is better ’ 
not. Don’t you understand, monami}'' and she followed 
him into the balcony. 

It was a bright scene. The tables in the body of the 
hall were laden with imitation gold and silver, plate 
glass dishes containing dessert, and wine glasses of 
various colours ; numerous gas jets shed a brilliant light 


94 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


upon the scene, which was heightened and intensified 
by the candles placed upon the various tables. 

The guests in this part of the hall were mostly men, 
but here and there the gaudy costume of some flashily- 
dressed woman would place a point of light colour in 
the picture. Waiters were hurrying to and fro between 
the guests, and the laughing chatter of the diners, the 
pop of champagne corks, and the clanking of knives, 
forks, an.d glasses formed a not inharmonious accom- 
paniment to the waltz which the musicians were 
playing in an orchestra above the farther end of the* 
hall. 

At the height of some six or seven feet from the 
ground a balcony ran round the centre hall. This 
balcony, containing a number of small tables, each laid 
with four covers, was far more secluded than the large 
hall below, and people dining in it could scarcely be seen 
by anyone except the diners at the next tables ; but at 
the same time they could look down upon the animated 
scene below them, and consequently these tables were 
much more quickly occupied than the others. 

This balcony used to be to a great extent shut out from 
view by pillars, with curtains draped around them, which 
supported a gallery above. The table which Ronald had 
secured was close to one of these pillars, and therefore 
when he and Lady Atherley sat down they felt almost 
alone. The waltz which the orchestra was playing was 
“ Reve.'* Lady Atherley leaned back in her chair 
with her eyes half closed. 

“ What are you thinking of? ” asked Ronald. 

“I was wondering whether, this is really true or 
not ; it all seems so strange, and that waltz tdo. 
How delicious, isn’t it? I wonder if it is only a 
dream.” 

“ I fear it must be,” said Ronald. “ It seems too 
beautiful to be real ; but if it be a dream, how I pray 
that the awakening may be long put off.” 

The waiter changed the course 6f the conversation 
by handing a wine list to Ronald. Lady Atherley 
would not choose a wine. She didn’t know what she 
liked, but Ronald knew enough of physiognomy to be, 
sure that a woman possessed of her eyes and figure 
must like champagne, and he felt pretty safe in choosipg 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


95 


some that was not too “ dry.” But the dinner was 
more difficult, for it seemed to them that they had no 
sooner decided upon one dish than they were called 
upon to exercise the^r choice again ; and, as neither of 
them cared in the least what was brought to them, this 
became a very difficult matter. But presently a very 
bright idea occurred to Ronald. 

“ Look here,” he said to the waiter, ** you must know 
which things are best, so don’t ask us to choose, but just 
bring whatever you like.” This order once given they 
both felt as if a weight had been lifted off their minds. 

“ How awfully pretty this place is,” said Lady 
Atherley, who was too happy to see the tinsel of the 
decorations, the coarseness of the glass, or the tawdri- 
ness of the imitation gold and silver plate. “ And it is 
just like being alone here,” and she touched his hand 
for a second. At this moment a young girl with dyed 
hair, painted cheeks, and a blue satin dress cut en caur^ 
who with an old gentleman had been looking out for a 
table, said : — 

“ We can’t get one to ourselves, so this will do,” 
and, sitting down opposite Ronald, she proceeded to 
take her jacket off. 

Lady Atherley began looking at the pro^amme of 
music on the mmu^ without taking any notice of the 
new arrivals, but Ronald, who felt indignant that such 
a girl should sit at the same table with her, hurried off 
to the manager to complain. 

“ But there is no table disengaged,” said the manager. 

“ I can’t help that,” said Ronald ; “ you can’t expect 
a lady to sit at the same table with a woman of that 
description.” 

“ Certainl}^ not, sir,” answered the^ manager, and, 
coming up with one of his blandest smiles, he drew the 
intruders away with the promise of a table to them- 
selves. 

“I am so awfully sorry,” said Ronald, as soon as 
they were gone. “It is too hard of these wretched 
people to come and mar what would otherwise have 
been a perfect evening.” 

“Don’t bother about them,” said Lady Atherley; 
“ they are gone, and that is the chief thin^. Oh, listen I 
they are playing the ‘ Cloches de CorneviUe.* How I 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


96 

love that piece! We heard it several times in Paris, 
last year. There — 

*Dans mes voyages 
Combien d’orages 
Que de naufrages, tra-la-la-la.* 

Oh, that makes such a lovely waltz. How I should 
like to dance it with you, some day. Of course, you 
dance well? ” 

“ No, I have given it up for some time now, and I 
have never learnt the new step ; when I gave up the 
deux temps nine years ago and learnt the tvois temps I 
found it an awful trouble to learn. But now that this 
new step has come in I consider myself completely 
shelved.” 

“ How funny you are,” laughed Lady Atherley, 
“ you must come and practise it with me. I shall soon 
teach you, and then you will have to come down from 
your shelf again.” 

“But I am afraid you will find me an unpromising 
pupil. I shall be awfully slow.” 

“Not with such a teacher as I am. I have danced 
with some of the best dancers in Europe, in Vienna, in 
Paris, in Berlin, and I can show you in ten minutes 
how to do the step, and then the rest is practice. Will 
you at least try to learn ? ” 

“ How can you ask ? Is there an3dhing I would not 
try to learn with you as teacher ? ” 

“ Then you really like me?” said she, mischievously. 

“ Like you? No, I love you. Oh, Constance, how 
I love you ; but I am no poet. I cannot tell my love, 
only I know that when I sit here beside you, and speak 
to you — ^when I look into your eyes like this — when I 
hold your hand, I feel that you must know how much I 
love you, and then I am happy.” 

“ What a dear, impulsive boy you are,” said Lady 
Atherley, bending forwards towards him till her hair 
touched his cheek. She had almost forgotten that they 
were in a public place, but as the waiter placed a plate 
before her she drew herself up suddenly. “ I don’t 
know what makes me so hungry,” she said; “I am 
simply ravenous. I have eaten everything they have 
put before me.” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


97 


Ronald, on the contrary, had found it impossible to 
take anything. He had sent everything away almost 
without tasting it. He felt rather hungry too, but 
directly he put anything in his mouth he disliked it, so 
he watched Lady Atherley, until at last at dessert his 
appetite seemed to come back. There was a dish of 
almonds before him. With one elbow on the table he 
took a few in his hand and began eating them — • 
at first scarcely touching his lips with the points of 
them, and then finishing them with a number .of short, 
sharp bites, stopping every now and then to dip his 
fingers in the rosewater which was lying in a large 
gilded dish beside him. 

The orchestra was playing the “ Wiener Blut *’ 
waltzes, and as the third note of the first bar of the 
melody rang out loud and clear, the air seemed to 
remind him of the bold flight of some bird winging its 
way towards Heaven, and his soul rising on the wings 
of fancy bore him fearlessly into the blue empyrean of 
a new and passionate love. 

“ What a divine waltz,” he said, after a short pause. 
“It is worthy to rank with ‘ II Bacio ’ and the ‘ Blue 
Danube.’ I never heard it before,' but I feel I shall 
never forget it.” 

“ No, nor I. How an air clings to one when it is 
heard for the first time under circumstances of peculiar 
sorrow or peculiar happiness. One can never hear it 
afterwards without returning for a moment to the same 
frame of mind in which one happened to be on first 
hearing it.” 

“ I have felt that, but I fear it is not true in every 
case, otherwise what should prevent my having this 
waltz played to me every day for the rest of my life ; if 
it could recall my present feelings, even for an instant, 
each time I heard it, I should learn it by heart to- 
morrow, and never cease playing it. But I should not 
have the courage to learn it, for I feel that, were I to 
do so, I should so often want to play it, that the im- 
pressions I wished to call up would soon be worn quite 
threadbare.” 

“ But I hope you will not have to rely upon one air 
only,” said Lady Atherley, with a tinge of alarm in her 
voice. “ Is this to be our only evening of happiness 

Q 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


98 

together ? Shall we never hear other music together ? 
Is our acquaintance to. be a matter of memory only 
from this time forth ? 

“ No, no — a thousand times no! I could not bear 
to think so ; don’t let us even imagine the possibility of 
such a thing. Of course, I know that some day you 
will cast me aside, but let us not think of that now. I 
have no time for any hideous thoughts to-night.” 

“ How very strange you are. I really think you 
believe that you love me, and yet here, on the very 
threshold of our — what shall I call it ? — friendship, 
you begin to think of how soon we are to tire of one 
another.” 

“ What ! I tire of you ? ” 

“Yes; I suppose it must be so, some day.” 

“ Never!” 

** You are right,” continued Lady Atherley, scarcely 
noticing his very emphatic exclamation. “ Your fancy 
for me has been so strong and so sudden that it must 
burn itself out soon. How long shall it last — a 
month ? ” 

“ Oh, Constance, how can you speak like this ?” 

“ Is a month too long, then ? ” she went on, while 
an expression of hardness stole over her features. ** I 
believe men are very fickle now ; perhaps I have over- 
rated my power over you.” 

Why did she speak like this ? She could not have 
told if she had stopped to inquire. 

“ Constance,” said Ronald, earnestly, while he felt his 
throat suddenly growing husky, “ what I have said 
to make you speak to me like this I cannot guess, 
but I feel sure that if you knew how deeply your 
words pain me you would not have said them. I 
know, of course, that all things human have an end 
sooner or later — happiness, alas ! soonest of all — and, 
therefore, a day must inevitably come when the best 
I can hope is that you will look upon me as one of 
your dear friends. I wish I could die before that day 
dawns ; but people never die at the right time except 
in novels, and therefore I implore of you that when that 
time does come you will not cast me off suddenly — I 
could not bear it — but let me guess gradually that I 
may no longer love you, and that my dream is over.” 


R18 LIST PASSION. 


99 


Ronald had grown very pale. His eyes looked lar^o 
and lustrous, and there was a slight tremor in his 
voice. Lady Atherley put her hand upon his, and 
pressed it. She felt that he really loved her, and her 
vanity was gratified, for never before had she made so 
complete a conquest, and yet there was a feeling of dis- 
appointment in her mind. She liked to be loved. What 
woman does not ? But she was one of those women 
who like to find in a lover a master rather than a slave. 
She felt that she was really rather fond of Ronald. 
She had never liked a man so much in so short a time 
before, but her ideal of a lover was a man who should 
come and compel her to love him; who should hold 
her will in his hand as a skilful rider holds a 
thorough-bred, apparently without effort, and who, 
while she was so madly in love with him as 
to be ready to sacrifice everything at his command, 
should himself remain perfectly calm, and show only 
enough feeling to let her know that the time would 
come when they should be all in all to each other. 
And here was a man worshipping at her shrine as if 
she were a deity— ready, no doubt, to lie prostrate 
before her, and permit her to drive a Juggernaut car 
of whims and fancies across his soul.” 

“It is very pleasant to be a goddess,” she thought; 
“ but the rdU of a woman would suit me better.” 

“ I think we had better let the future take care of 
itself,” she said, kindly. “ You say you are happy now; 
let that suffice. Let us talk of something else. Is not 
that better?” 

The waiter had brought coffee and Chartreuse. The 
diners were nearly all gone. The only other people 
remaining on their side of the balcony were putting on 
their coats and lighting cigars. 

“ You may smoke a cigarette if you like,” said Lady 
Atherley ; “ I don’t mind it at all.” 

Ronald generally smoked after dinner, but he feared 
that Lady Atherley might dislike the smell of the 
tobacco in the cab when they drove av/ay, even if she 
did not object to it while he actually smoked, so he 
said, “ Oh, no, thank you. I don’t care about it.” 

Again a slight feeling of disappointment came over 
Constance. It was part of her creed that all manly 


zoo 


HIS LAST PASSION. 

men smoked, and she had from long custom grown 
quite fond of the smell of tobacco ; and although she 
never smoked herself, she liked Captain Greville, or 
anyone who dined with her, to light a cigarette after 
dinner. 

She turned the conversation. 

“ I am so sorry^ I hardly noticed your wife the other 
night,” she said ; “ tell me about her. Is she pretty ? 
Do you get on well together ? Are you fond of her ? 
Does she love you ? ” 

“ What a number of questions ! I think her pretty, 
and I think most people would ; she has a very good 
figure — rather slight perhaps, but nearly perfect.” 

“ But if you admire that sort of figure, how you must 
hate mine ! Don’t you think me awfully stout ? ” 

“ How can you speak like that ? In a picture or a 
statue I do admire a slight figure, but I hold with the 
Turks that a beauty of flesh and blood should be a fair 
weight for a camel’s back.” 

“ How horrid of you to compare me to a bale of 
cotton, or a sack of potatoes. I declare I could kill 
you for your odious simile.” 

“ Well, you know, I think you can’t have too much 
of a good thing; but, since my expression displeases 
you, I will use a more hackneyed one instead, and say 
that I love a little embonpoint — is that better ? ” 

“Yes, yes ; but how about your wife ? you were 
going to tell me.” 

“ We are the best of friends, we never quarrel ; we 
are scarcely the least bit jealous of each other ; not 
now, at least, for I was awfully jealous once, but that is 
long passed now, thank God — and for ever and ever, I 
hope.” 

Then you evidently love each other very much ? ” 

“ Love ! no ; that is an old story, too, now. Ah, how 
I have longed that she could and would love me 
again ! How I have striven to regain her affection ! 
but it is gone for ever. Why, it is only since I have 
known you that I have been able to think of our past 
love — now so hopelessly tr.rned into friendship — with- 
out pain.” 

Lady Atherley had been leaning over very close to 
Ronald, but she now drew herself up, and the expres- 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


lOI 


sion of warm sympathy which had been constantly 
upon her face faded quickly away, and she looked at 
him coldly, almost disdainfully 

“ You must be very fond of her,” she said. 

“Yes, I like her, and honour her immensely. She is 
really awfully good, and I often think what a splendid 
wife she would have made to a better man.” 

“ It is getting late,” said Lady Atherley ; “ look, we 
are alone here, and the waiters are fidgetting to get us 
away, and besides, I daresay you are beginning to think 
it is a long time since you left your wife.” 

Every guest had left the restaurant ; the waiters were 
clearing the adjoining tables with a good deal more 
noise than was absolutely necessary, and the one who 
had been specially attending upon Ronald was hovering 
about trying to make them feel that they ought to go. 
Ronald noticed the coldness of Lady Atherley’s manner, 
and he felt how necessary it was to turn the conversa- 
tion ; so as he helped her on with her cloak, he said : 

“ But tell me something of yourself and your husband. 
Do you like him much ? ” 

“ What ! Algernon? Oh, how I haU him! You don’t 
know — you will probably never know with what good 
cause — but do you think I should be here with you 
if I liked him ? If on my return home to-night 
I were to hear that he had left me and gone away 
with someone else, I think I should go mad with joy. 
But there is no chance of such a thing. No, he will be 
there to torture me till my dying day. I sold myself to 
him for wealth and position — yes, basely sold myself, 
and now I have my just reward; but poverty seemed 
so hideous, for I had always been taught to look upon it as 
such a bugbear, that the temptation was great, and now 
1 suffer for it, but, oh, my God ! how hard it is to bear.” 

Lady Atherley’s eyes had filled with tears. She 
looked very pale, and Ronald longed to press her to his 
heart and kiss her tears away. The conversation about 
his wife had piqued her. Had he not bowed down to 
her as to a divinity ? Then what right had he to set 
up his wife or any other woman as an idol beside her ? 
She was not accustomed to analyze her feelings, and 
therefore when his question about her husband had 
turned her thoughts into another channel she had given 


HIS LAST PA6S101f< 


xoa 

way to this burst of anger, and the cloud which had 
been gathering in her mind over Ronald had been 
dispersed in these few bitter sentences against her 
husband. 

“ What an idiot you must think me,” she said with a 
smile, as she placed her hand on his arrn and 
walked along the gallery. “ I am so foolish, I 
ought to bear my chains with a better grace — but there 
now, I don’t mean to think of anything unpleasant 
to-night.** 


CHAPTER XI. 


A 8BANCX MISSBD. 

‘‘Where shall we go now?** asked Ronald, delighted 
at this sudden return of sunshine. 

“Why, my dear boy, it is half-past nine o’clock, and 
I must get home as soon as possible. Will you drive 
home with me?” 

“Of course, if I may.** 

They got into a hansom, and, as they drove off — ^“I 
can’t bear to think that you suffer,” said Ronald, taking 
her hand. She did not withdraw it. 

“Thank you,” she said; “I do so love sympathy, I 
think it really makes one’s burdens lighter.” 

“ If that is true, then you ought to find them lighter 
to-night, for I sympathize with you with all my heart, 
and I feel that I would give a year of my life to save 
you a moment’s pain,” 

‘‘ Only our two selves. How delightful !” said Lady 
Atherley, leaning back, as she endeavored, gently now, to 
free her hand which Ronald still held. 

The hansom was jolting along Holborn. The street 
looked dark, and though the window was up Ronald 
knew that no one could see them. He felt supremely 
happy, for Constance did not repulse him. She only 
said, faintly, ” Don’t do that; you really must not,” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


103 


and he thought that she must love him a little, or she 
would not have allowed it. Every now and again words 
seemed to rise to his lips, and then to fall back, unspoken, 
into his heart. As they were passing the Oxford Music 
Hall, she said : — 

“ I should like to go and see that place some night, 
it must be great fun ; will you take me if I can get 
away some evening ? ” 

He hardly paid any attention to her remark, for it 
was so delightful to sit with her beside him like that, 
but he said : — 

“You would not care for it — it is only vulgar, and I 
should not like you to go. It reeks of bad tobacco and 
beer, and there is really nothing amusing in it for you ; 
but, of course, if you want to go very much, I shall be 
glad to take you. If you put on a thick veil and keep 
the curtains of your box well drawn, no one will 
recognise you — at least unless there should be anyone 
there who loves you as madly as I do, for I believe I 
should know you anywhere now, and under any 
disguise.” 

He was speaking on — not for the sake of what he 
was saying (for he hardly knew what he said), but he 
felt that as long as his voice was sounding in her ears 
she would let him sit as he was, and forget to draw 
herself away. 

“ But I do so want to go,” she said. “ I have never 
seen a music-hall, and Algernon is so horrid ; he won’t 
take me himself, or let me go with anyone else. Now 
do promise to take me.” 

“ I promise,” said Ronald. 

“ By the way,” continued Lady Atherley, who was very 
anxious to continue the conversation, ‘‘ have you seen 
the new piece at the Opera-Comique, when last you 
were in Paris ? Is it pretty ?” 

“ Yes, it is charming; the music is admirably written. 
All Paris was there the first night.” 

“ A few evenings ago a great discussion was raised 
between my sister and my brother-in-law on the subject 
of the masked ball at the opera in Paris. My brother- 
in-law maintained that it is impossible for a lady to go 
there.” 

“ Well, you see, the company is decidedly — ” 


104 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


“ Miscellaneous ? Yes, I know that. But one finds 
that everywhere. You cannot imagine how I dislike 
society," continued Lady Atherley, who now suddenly 
passed to another subject, intent only upon keeping up 
the conversation. “ Society chokes me. That is the 
effect the world has upon me. I must have fallen among 
serious young men, friends of my husband; young ‘text- 
books ’ I call them. To the women I meet I can only 
talk of the last sermon they have heard, of the last 
piece of music they have been studying, or of the last 
dress they have worn." 

“ It is a craze. There is really no sense in it. . . 

They came once more into Oxford Street, and as they 
passed by a lamp he saw her countenance radiant with 
smiles, her lovely lips partly open, and her eyes fairly 
dancing with merriment. She knew that the conversa- 
tion was not interesting to her companion, that perhaps 
even it bored him, but being a thorough woman of the 
world, she knew that her only escape from his honeyed 
phrases, at the time, lay in her ability to keep her friend 
engaged in idle talk. She also to some extent enjoyed 
the discomfiture of the young man. Time and again 
he whispered tender words of undying love and devo- 
tion, but, with that peculiar tact which only women know 
how to use, she vouchsafed no answer, without at 
the time appearing rude, for she said to herself : “ This 
is very wrong of me, but I suppose it does not matter 
just for this once; and I don’t want to be cross to him, for 
he does love me so much. I will tell him of it in the 
afternoon when we meet coldly, and then he won’t mind." 

The cab was now entering the Regent Circus, and 
Ronald so far forgot himself as to seize her hand and, 
raising it to his lips, attempt to kiss it. 

“Take care," she murmured hurriedly, “I may be 
recognised." But fortune favored them; they were not 
recognised. 

Ronald felt really alarmed, and he blamed himself bit- 
terly for having exposed Lady Atherley to so much danger. 

“ I hope to goodness no friend of yours was passing," 
he said anxiously. “ How imprudent I am, darling ! I 
shall never forgive myself if anyone saw us." 

“ Oh, don’t talk of it," she answered, “ it would be too 
awful. I can’t think what possessed me to go out. 


HIS LAST PASSION. lO^ 

It is very wrong. Now, tell me honestly, don’t you 
despise me awfully for it ? ” 

“ Despise you for it ! No, my darling, I love yon for 
it,” and he attempted again to kiss her. 

She pushed him away gently. “No,” she said; 
“ don’t begin that again ; you have done quite enough 
mischief for one day. Goodness only knows who may 
have seen me. Perhaps my character is compromised 
beyond all hope of recovery.” 

“ Well, darling, I don’t think you need really fear 
anything ; for, you see, it is so improbable that Lady 
Atherley should be kissed by a man in a cab in Oxford 
Street, that if anyone said such a thing it would not be 
believed, and I should think that anyone seeing it 
would never suppose it was really you, but would put it 
down to a remarkable likeness. Then there is nothing 
in the least striking about your dress to-day, except, 
perhaps, that bunch of violets in your bonnet.” 

“ I will burn them to-morrow.” 

And the next day the lovely new French bonnet was 
despoiled of its flowers, and they were ruthlessly flung 
upon the fire, though Ronald would willingly have 
bought them at fifty times their weight in gold to keep 
as a souvenir of that first delightful evening. 

The cab was now turning into Grosvenor Square. 

“ I suppose I may not come in for a minute, so I had 
better say good-night here,” said Ronald, sad to think 
that one of the happiest evenings in his life was over. 

“ Oh, you may come in for a little while if you like. 
That is, at least, if you — but no, I think, perhaps, you 
had better not.” 

“ If I what ? oh, do tell me — I so hate saying ‘ good- 
bye ’ yet, if there is any excuse for putting ofi* the evil 
moment a little longer.” 

“ Well, after what has happened just now, I don’t 
think you ought to come in.” 

“ If that is all, I will be as quiet as a lamb. I pro- 
mise ; won’t you trust me ? ” 

The cab had stopped at No. 55, and Ronald was 
handing Lady Atherley out of it. • As she sprang 
lightly to the pavement, she said : — 

“ Very well, you may come in.” 

The butler, who had heard the hansom stop, had 


BIS LAST PASSION. 


zo6 

already opened the door, and while he respectfully took 
Ronald’s hat and stick Lady Atherley turned over the 
letters which the last post had brought in and said : — 

“ Light the candles in my boudoir, Weston.” 

The butler, a prim, correct looking man of forty- 
five, with a pair of trim little whiskers and an otherwise 
closely shaven face, gave Ronald a searching glance from 
his piercing black eyes as he bowed low and hastened to 
obey his orders. He knew that the boudoir was reserved 
by Lady Atherley for her particular friends, and that 
except on ball nights Captain Greville was the only 
man who was ever shown into it, and here was a 
perfect stranger — so far as he knew — who had never 
been in the house before that day going to sit there 
with his mistress. He pondered over the matter, and 
determined to watch Macleod’s behaviour. In a 
moment he returned to say that the candles were 
lighted, and Lady Atherley and her friend passed into 
the boudoir. 

It was a lovely little room — more like the reception- 
room of some Parisian demi - mondaine than the 
sanctuary of an English lady. The walls were covered 
with light-blue flowered silk stretched in panels, each 
of which was surrounded by a border of maroon velvet. 
The ceiling, which had been painted blue, was covered 
with lace and muslin curtains drawn from the walls 
and caught up in the centre by a mirror, supported by 
little Watteau figures in silver. There were no paint- 
ings, but the mirror over the broad velvet- covered 
mantelpiece was framed in silver, with Hageves of 
maroon velvet at each side of it supporting a collection 
of Sevres and Dresden figures, and in the centre of 
each panel on the wall was a large trefoil of similar 
velvet, serving as a back-ground to groups of mytho- 
logical figures, chiefly in Dresden china. In place of 
the window on the left hand, a small conservatory had 
been built, with a large circular basin in the centre, 
containing gold fish. Across the entrance to this con- 
servatory, and across the door, were draped curtains of 
light blue satin. The carpet was of the same prevail- 
ing colour, with a Japanese pattern of japonicas 
climbing^ over a black trellis work. The chairs were 
covered in blue and silver, while an ebony and silver 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


107 


cottage piano, a couple of small velvet tables, and a 
marqueterie bonheur du jour, inlaid with old Sevres 
plaques, completed the furniture of the room. 

Lady Atherley threw herself into a large arm-chair in 
front of the fire, while Ronald stood leaning on the 
mantelpiece. He was watching her intently, for she 
appeared to him incomparably more beautiful than ever 
before. One of her hands played feverishly with the 
fringe of the drapery round the chair; the other held a 
straw-coloured fan of ostrich-feathers, which rested on 
the folds of her dress. Beneath the drapery of this 
robe, her flexible and admirably modelled figure was 
discernible. 

Two tiny feet, enclosed in slippers and silk stockings 
embroidered with gold, freed themselves from the long 
folds of her gown. 

“You seem to be quite lost in some reverie,” she said, 
holding languidly her fan between her face and the fire; 
“you were anxious to come in — was it only to stand 
there and dream ?” 

“ I know it is rude of me to dream; you must forgive 
me, because my dream is so delicious that it would be 
absolute vandalisrn to destroy it.” 

“ Oh, do let me hear it, if it is so charming as that.” 

“ Well, I was dreaming that I had never before seen a 
woman as beautiful as you are to-night, and have been 
admiring those fairy-like feet. . . .” 

“ Oh, I know it is horrid of me,” said Lady Atherley, 
starting up straight in her chair, and holding the fire 
screen in front of her ankles, “ I have got into the 
most awful habit of lying back in chairs when I am 
with anyone who makes me feel quite at home, and 
then I always forget what a fearful exhibition I am 
making, but I will really try and be more decorous, 
and if you will tell me every time I daresay I shall 
learn to behave better before long.” 

“ Now, I said you were not to be angry with me if I 
told you, and I am sure it is punishment enough for me 
that you give me the peacock’s feathers to look at 
instead of something much prettier without being sar- 
castic as well.” 

“ Don’t you know that you arc talking sacrilege, an 


ms LAST PASSION. 


io8 

that peacock’s feathers are quite the most utterly 
intense of all the lovely decorations of which the 
highest art takes cognizance ? ” asked Lady Atherley, 
putting her head slightly on one side and gazing at the 
fire-screen with a look of mock admiration, while she 
sank into the quaint attitude of one of Mr. Burne 
Jones’s mediaeval damosels. The effect which her 
modern Parisian costume produced in this attitude was 
very funny. 

“ I don’t understand high art, for I am not in the 
least aesthetic,” laughed Ronald. “ But I do know 
that the most utterly intense and lovely thing I want to 
see is Lady Constance Ida Atherley.” 

He bent over her suddenly and kissed her before she 
could answer. 

“ Mr. Macleod,” she said, half angrily, “ I thought 
you promised that if I let you come in you would 
behave properly.” 

“ Then you know my second name, too,” she said, 
after a short pause ; “ do you like it ? ” 

“ Yes, it has always been my favourite name, and I 
like it much better than Constance. Do many people 
call you by it ? ” 

“No, I don’t think anyone ever did. I am generally 
called Constance or Connie.” 

“ Oh, I hate that last abbreviation — ^may I call you 
Ida ? I shall love to think that I have a name for you 
all to myself.” 

“ I think the only way you have any right to address 
me is as ‘ Lady Atherley,’ ” she said, rising from her 
chair, and looking at him with so much haughtiness 
that for an instant he thought she was in earnest. 

“ Tiens, mon ami '" she said, laying her hand on his 
shoulder and looking full into his eyes, while her stern 
expression melted into a smile, “ it is only my nonsense, 
I like to tease you a little ; but you may call me 
exactly what you like.” 

The events of that day had been too much for 
Ronald — the excitement of the visit in the afternoon — 
the long weary waiting at the station— the sudden 
revulsion of feeling which he had experienced when 
she had at last driven up — the happiness he had 
enjoyed at the Holborn Restaurant— the madness of 


HIS LAST PASSION. 109 

the drive home in the hansom-^the sudden changes 
in Lady Atherley’s manner — had all wrought together 
upon him, and he now felt that he had lost all control 
over himself. Seizing her round the shoulders, he pressed 
her to him in a mad embrace. 

Vainly she struggled to free herself from him, for he held 
her with the firmness of a vise. An inward struggle en- 
sued. Should he speak, or should he let her depart ? His 
reserve and timidity at first counselled him to be silent. 
But, though one’s character is generally stronger than one’s 
feelings, love impetuously forced its way through his inde- 
cision, and he felt he was bound to have the courage and 
satisfaction of confessing all to the woman he adored. 

In a moment she seemed to grow too weak even to 
speak. 

“ My darling Ida,** he murmured, “ I love you, oh, 
how I love you ! ” 

She made no answer — she had almost fainted. She 
had not the strength to push him away. 

“ Oh, my darling, darling, I will follow you to the end 
of the world, I will give up everything for you.” 

“ No, no, Ronald, do not speak thus,” she answered. 

Suddenly the blood rushed back from her heart, she 
could feel it surging at her temples as though the veins 
would burst, and the pallor of her face gave way to a 
crimson flush. She sprang to her feet. In^ a moment 
she seemed to realize the degradation of being thus at 
the mercy of a man whom she scarcely knew — a 
man whom she did not love. Did she not almost hate 
him as he knelt there at her feet? And yet in that 
moment of strength her weakness returned upon her. 
The events of that day had not left her unmoved. 

“ Leave me,” she said, in a low, deep voice which 
penetrated his soul— “ Leave me. Enough of this degra- 
dation. I am powerless now, but I will never see you 
again, and know that hereafter if ever I think of you it 
will be with feelings of the deepest hatred” — and she 
sank into the arm-chair once again. 

With an immense effort Ronald overcame his feelings. 
For an instant he stood there watching her; how lovely 
she looked as she lay there uneasy and bashful, with her 
oppressed and agitated breathing ! A lock of hair had 
fallen across her forehead. Had he known that a file of 


no 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


soldiers was waiting outside to lead him to instant 
execution, he would have followed up his suit; but to 
live afterwards and become an object of hatred to her — 
never ! 

‘‘ No,” he said, with a voice which trembled in spite 
of his efforts to keep calm, “ I love you with all the 
strength of my soul. I do not belong to the class of 
licentious intriguers who outwardly affect an exaggerated 
Puritanism. Even if the cup of happiness were held 
to my lips, I would fling it from me untasted rather than 
run the risk of losing for ever that love which I 
would give all else in life to win. I swear to you 
by that which I hold dearest in the world — by your 
own sweet self — that when I came here I had no 
thought of this — no thought of offending you. For- 
give me,” and he made a step towards her, but she 
shrank from him. 

“ Oh, don’t begin again,” she said, “ for God’s sake 

go now, I cannot bear it.” 

“ You still fear me,” he said. ** Look at me, Ida, I 
am calm now, and you are as safe with me as if I were 
a statue instead of a man, and I tell you now that if 
ever I have the intense delight of calling you mine, it 
shall not be in a moment of passion like this, for if you 
do not love me freely and without reservation of any 
kind, I shall never become yours in any other way.” 

She opened her eyes and looked: at him. The 
effort he had made to regain his self-control had 
blanched his cheeks, but his eyes were large and 
lustrous — she saw that he was once more master of 
himself, and she felt all a woman’s admiration for the 
strong will which had been able in a moment to subdue 
his over- wrought feelings. 

“ Ronald,” she said, holding out her hand to him 
frankly, with a look of unfeigned admiration, “ you are 
generous, you are noble. I had thought that my fancy 
for you would pass away quickly and give way to 
indifference upon a nearer acquaintance, but now I feel — 
and I frankly confess it to you — that if you are really 
the man I believe you to be at this moment I shall learn 
to love you with all my heart and with all my soul. 
I have been weak, and you have generously respected 
my woman’s weakness. I am grateful to you now, and 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


til 


I know how much more deeply I shall feel your 
generosity when I think over the events of this night 
hereafter. Go now, and may our next meeting be not 
far distant.” 

He held her hand, but he felt that, after what she 
had said, it would be mean of him to kiss her again. 

“ And may I hope, then ? ” he asked. 

“ Be patient,” she answered ; “ to those who can 
wait all things are possible.” 

At this half-promise his face brighteiied. 

“ Thanks,” he murmured, “ a thousand thanks.” 

As he hesitated a moment before saying good-night, 
a thought struck her. 

“ And our. spiritual seance ? ” 

** It has been the most successful I ever attended/* 
he answered. “ May I hope for another before long ?** 
A bientot” she said, as he left the room. 

The butler, who had heard the door open, came 
forward to let him out. Ronald noticed how narrowly 
the man watched him. 

“ Can you fetch me a cab ? ” he asked. 

“ Certainly, sir ; ” and in a few minutes a cab stood 
at the door. 

Ronald slipped a sovereign into the man’s hand. 
From that moment the butler abandoned the resolution 
he had made of watching the new visitor, and deter- 
mined that henceforth he would be perfectly blind 
whenever that gentleman happened to call. 

Unconscious of the chill night air Ronald sat back in 
the hansom, and as the wheels rattled over the stones 
they seemed to play a joyous tune, of which the ever 
recurring refrain was“ She loves me — she loves me !” 


zxa 


BXS LAST PASSION* 


CHAPTER XII. 

CONCERNING CLOTHES* 

The next morning, as Macleod walked to his- office, 
pondering over the events of the previous evening, it 
suddenly struck him that his boots were very badly 
made. This discovery led him to several others, and 
by the time he was sitting at his desk he had come to 
the conclusion that his collar was of an unfashionable 
shape, that his clothes were badly cut, and that it was 
time he had a new hat. In short, for the first time 
since he married he began to feel that he was badly 
dressed, and that he must for Lady Atherley’s 
sake make a change in his personal appearance. 
But though it was easy enough to have his hair cut 
short, to substitute a stick-up for a turn-down collar, 
and to put on a black silk scarf with a gold pin in 
it instead of the old-fashioned bow he had been 
accustomed to wear, he felt that in the matter of 
getting a well-cut coat, neat boots, and the correct 
style of hat, he would be unable to proceed upon 
his own unaided judgment. He might have recourse 
to Fausterley, who had often chaffed him about his 
indifference to dress; but though the young barrister 
was always careful to appear with a new-looking 
hat and clothes of the latest cut, his taste led him 
to go before the fashion rather than to follow it ; 
and Ronald laughed as he pictured himself dressed 
according to his friend’s pattern. But while he was 
deliberating as to whom it would be best to consult, 
one of the clerks brought him a letter to sign. 

This clerk, a Mr. Barbour, was the very man 
for Ronald’s purpose. He was about Ronald’s own 
age, and they had both entered the firm about the 
same time ; but though they had been so many years 
together they had never become intimate, for Ronald 
looked upon him as a good-natured bore, whose com- 
pany was almost intolerable. Mr. Barbour had but one 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


1X3 

ambition — one idea in life — to be taken for a cavalry 
officer. His chief care was to conceal the fact that he 
was a clerk in the city. 

Nor had Mr. Barbour been unsuccessful in the 
great ambition of his life. He had joined the 
volunteers, and giving great attention to his drill 
he had acquired a more thorough knowledge of 
matters of military detail than many an officer' 
in the regular army could boast of. And by dint of 
constantly talking about his corps, which he always 
called his regiment, he had often succeeded in impress- 
ing young ladies at dances with the idea that he was in 
the service — an idea which was further strengthened by 
the^ heaviness of his moustache and a peculiarity of gait 
which he had acquired by walking about for hours in 
his bedroom with a large pair of spurs on his feet and 
a cavalry sword by his side. In fact, so thoroughly 
had he learnt his part, that crossing sweepers and shoe 
blacks were always deceived by his appearance and 
addressed him as “ Captain.’* 

Of course, with him dress was a matter of deep and 
continual study. Every day, after his work was over, 
he would dawdle for an hour in the park, and, having 
learned to know several Guardsmen and celebrities of 
the grand monde- by sight, he noted with the greatest 
care every detail of their dress, so that when any new 
fashion came in he was able to follow it before it 
became general; and his tailor, to whom he spoke 
familiarly of Lord A. of the Guards, Captain B. of the 
Blues, etc., etc., had become impressed with the idea 
that he was, if not in the Guards himself, at least a 
great friend of many of the officers, and consequently 
a man to be treated with the greatest consideration. 

To this man, then, Ronald turned for advice. A few 
days ago he would never have thought of asking his 
opinion upon any subject, least of all upon a matter of 
this kind, for he knew that Barbour would be sure 
to tell the other fellows how Macleod had had to 
come to him to learn how to dress. When Ronald had 
been defeated at Sandborough, Barbour’s first thought 
had been one of delight that the man who had been 
below him in the office, and who as a partner had now 
risen above him, should not have attained a position so 

H 


BIS LAST PASSION. 


far above any which he could ever hope to fill ; but 
afterwards he had often regretted his defeat, for after 
all it would have been pleasant to talk to his partners 
at dances about ** my friend, the member for Sand- 
borough.” 

But though Ronald knew that it was probable he 
might be ia)dng up a perfect garner of chaff for himself, 
he felt that anything his companions might say could 
affect him very little in his present happy frame of 
mind ; so without any circumlocution, he plunged at 
once into the thick of the subject. 

“ Do you know,” he began, standing up and pulling 
his coat in at the waist, “ that I am getting very 
dissatisfied with my tailor. Don’t you think this coat 
is very badly cut ? ” 

“ Atrociously, my dear fellow,” answered Barbour, 
who could not tell what to make of Ronald’s question, 
and looked round to see if there was anyone within 
hearing to laugh with. 

“Well, the fact is,” said Ronald, “that I leave 
ever)rthing to my tailors, and I think they must be very 
bad, for they never seem to turn out a decent coat.” 

“ Well I shouldn’t have said an 5 ^hing unless you had 
asked me,” answered Barbour, grinning inordinately, 
“ but your dress is absolutely a crime. I declare your 
tailor ought to be shot, but then why dqn’t you change 
him?” 

“ Ah, that’s the difficulty, you see. I don’t know 
where to go. If I went to Savile’s he would not take 
the trouble to dress me properly, so that I should only 
pay a higher price and be no better off than I am now, 
for I should not be able to tell him what I wanted. 
And then, you know,” continued Ronald, smiling, “ I 
haven’t your figure.” 

“ Oh, that’s nothing,” said Barbour, immensely de- 
lighted with the compliment ; “ a good tailor can soon 
put right any little thing of that kind. My man would 
make you look a thousand per cent, better if you care 
to give him a trial.” 

“ I should be very glad to, but I didn’t like to 
trouble you about it. When you go to him next, would 
you mind taking me with you ? ” 

“ Delighted. 1 am going to-day.” 


BIS LAST PASSION, 


*»5 

When they reached the tailor's, an unpretending- 
looking shop in Conduit Street, Barbour introduced 
Ronald as a friend, to whom the greatest atten- 
tion must be shown ; then, looking at some cloth which 
was lying on the table, he said : 

“ Very pretty, that ; but you must show us something 
a little quieter, Mr. Dortheim — that is hardly suitable 
for a statesman.” 

The tailor, wondering whether Ronald might be one 
of the new Ministry, was most profuse in his attention. 
Ronald left the choice of everything to his colleague, 
and the result was that he got a really well-fitting and 
stylish-looking suit, and after Barbour had taken him to 
a hatter and a bootmaker he looked five years younger 
and almost a dandy. 

When the clothes came home Mrs. Macleod could 
not understand the change. 

“ What have you done to yourself? ” she asked, when 
she saw Ronald starting for the city in his new war 
paint. “ I declare you look quite respectable, and I 
shan’t be ashamed to take you with me to the park. 
What does it mean ?” 

“ Oh, I’ve tried a new tailor,” said Ronald, carelessly,, 
but half fearing that she would guess there must be 
some cause for so radical a change. 

“Well, I’m sure it was time,” she answered; “will 
you meet me somewhere and pay some visits to-day ? ” 

But Ronald had planned that he would call on Lady 
Atherley, whom he had not seen since the night of the 
interview at the Holborn Restaurant. So he excused 
himself on the plea that he could not get away till too 
late. 

Ella said nothing, but she thought, “ It is always the 
same. He can never come when I want him, but 
thank goodness, Charlie is generally disengaged.” 
She sent off a telegram to Fausterley to be ready, and 
she would call for him at his chambers and take him 
for a drive. 

“ I can’t think what has happened to Ronald,” she 
said, when a few hours later they were driving down 
Regent Street together. “ He is dressed absolutely 
like a gentleman, and I don’t remember such a thing 
before for years. Isn’t it mysterious ? ” 


ii6 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


“ Well, I think I can clear up the mystery — Ronald 
is in love.” 

“ Oh, nonsense, he isn’t that sort of man at all; he 
likes fooling about with women, I know,*^ but his are only 
silly flirtations, and he is much too indiflerent ever to 
fall in love ; I wish he would, I think I should respect 
him more.” 

“ Well, then, you have your wish, for he is really 
thoroughly gone on Lady Atherley. I never saw 
a more downright case in my life.” And Fausterley 
proceeded to give a full description of all the unmistake- 
able signs which he had observed in his friend during 
the last few days. 

“ Isn’t it glorious ? ” he added — ^whenhe had told her all 
about it — it will take his mindoffhis defeat, and besides, 
it will keep him from bothering us and being jealous.” 

‘‘ Well, that is a blessing.” 

Mrs. Macleod’s first sensation on hearing this intelli- 
gence was one of relief. She had often vaguely 
wished Ronald would take a fancy to some one, 
for she thought she knew him well enough to 
be certain that it could never be serious, and that 
consequently, while he would gain an interest in life, 
his nature was such that there was little fear of his 
being guilty of any of the follies which men commit 
when they fall in love after their youth has passed 
away. But still, though she had looked forward with 
something like pleasure to the idea of his taking some 
fancy which would make him more cheerful in himself 
and less observant of her, yet, when she heard that her 
half-wish had come true, the intelligence left her 
thoughtful and for a few minutes silent. Charlie 
Fausterley observed her closely. Could he have 
been deceived in her? Was it possible that, 
after all, she had some remains of tender feeling 
for Ronald. He had always believed that the friend- 
ship of the husband and wife had become so 
thoroughly Platonic that either of them might have 
heard of any infidelity of the other with the most 
perfect sang froid — in the same way that one of two 
friends would hear of some piece of extravagance com- 
mitted by the other, as a circumstance to be regretted, 
perhaps, but not to be grieved over. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


II7 

** I don’t believe it,” said Ella. 

“ But I assure you there is not the slightest doubt 
about it,” answered Fausterley, rather piqued at her 
flat rejection of his information. Intent upon con- 
vincing her that he was right, he multiplied proofs 
and circumstances, repeating what Ronald had said to 
him about his new flame — describing his excitement 
before the first visit, and painting the rapture with 
which Ronald had come to him the day after the 
dinner at the Holborn, and confided to him the success- 
ful progress of his suit. Then Ella remembered that 
it was true he had dined out on that particular night, 
and the thought flashed across her, “ Perhaps it is true 
after all.” 

What was it that made her turn from this thought 
with dislike? Was it that any of the old love 
for him still nestled in some far corner of her 
heart ? No. For how could she care for any man 
who did not make her his divinity — his only 
queen. Was she a woman to share the pedestal upon 
which her husband had placed her with any Lady 
Atherley who crossed his path ? Never. But still she 
would like to know if it was true. Suddenly she turned 
almost angrily upon Fausterley and said, “Do you 
know that it is a very mean rdle ^hich. you are play- 
ing — repeating to me the secrets which my husband 
has confided to you. I am glad there is nothing 
between us, or perhaps you might return confidence for 
confidence.” 

Fausterley 's face flushed crimson. He set his teeth 
firmly and drew his lips back till they turned white. 

“ You are no doubt right,” he said, in a voice which 
he forced himself to keep calm, “ and I am not a fit 
companion for you,” and he leant forward to tell the 
coachman to stop. 

“ Stop at the first music shop,” said Mrs. Macleod, 
with great presence of mind, aware that if Fausterley 
left the carriage abruptly, looking as angry as he did, the 
matter would certainly be discussed in the servants’ hall. 

As the carriage pulled up at the shop door Mrs. 
Macleod said “ Buy me a song and forgive me,” and 
looking into his eyes she saw that his momentary anger 
was passing away. 


ii8 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


** I Spoke thoughtlessly,” she said, as they once more 
entered the carriage, ** only your communication took 
me so much by surprise, and Ronald is so unlikely 
to have any strong fancy for anyone. I don’t believe 
he is capable of loving anybody.” 

“ I don’t know how capable he may be,” answered 
Fausterley, still rather ruffled, “ but this I do know, 
that if he is proof against the disease he has all the 
outward symptoms of a very serious attack.” 

“ Well, you shall give me proofs.” 

“ No. That would evidently be distasteful to you.” 

“ Don’t be a goose. I tell you you shall give' me 
proofs, and if you think I care — well, but really what 
fun it is to think of grave old Ronald. I can’t believe 
it. It must be rather dull for Lady Atherley, too. 
But I can’t see much to admire in her, though, can you ? ” 
And so Mrs. Macleod rattled on in half-finished 
sentences, suddenly seized with a wild gaiety — laughing 
at everything, teasing Fausterley, and, in fact, making 
herself more charming than ever. Therefore, when the 
drive was over he pressed her hand more tenderly than 
usual, and said in a low tone which only just reached 
her ear, “ And to think that a man could leave you for 
any woman in the world.” 

“ And could you then be so very faithful ? ” 

“ I wish I might have the happiness to be tried.” 

‘‘But suppose you were to meet Lady Atherley after- 
wards ; how could you keep your faith ? ” 

“ Lady Atherley ? Oh 1 ” 

“ Well, good-bye ; we must not put you to so rude a 
trial.” 

Fausterley walked away musing. The scene which 
had just taken place between him and Ella gave him 
food for deep reflection. One thing was certain to 
him now. Lightly as their marriage tie sat upon his 
friends, that tie could not be broken without a pang. 
It seemed incomprehensible to him that they should 
feel any pain at parting, and yet, after what Mrs. 
Macleod had said, it was evident to him that if a 
rupture should ever come she, at least, would not bear 
it with indifference, whatever Ronald might think or 
feel— plunged as he was in the delirium of his new 
passion. 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


II9 

And he himself — Ronald’s friend — what was he 
doing ? But, no ; there could not be any real sorrow 
about a parting between the Macleods, and he went 
over in his mind his parting with his former loves. 
There was his first love when he was about, sixteen, 
for Madame de Monribeau — a fashionable French 
woman who had made an idol of him for six weeks, and 
then dropped him for the banker’s clerk who came once 
a month to inform her how her account stood. He 
had felt that — for a few weeks, it is true, but then 
he was such a boy at that time, and he might be 
expected to have some absurdly sentimental feelings 
— this would never be the case with people so 
old as the Macleods. Then there was Polly Hunter 
— a laughing, sunny, light-hearted girl, who had 
brightened his existence for nearly two years, and 
shared all his troubles and sorrows, and was as nearly 
perfect as a woman could be — although she had developed 
too strong a taste for jewellery and champagne. Well, 
when she allowed Colonel Smithers to buy her that 
diamond ring which she could not afford, and he got 
angry about it and sent her away — he had had a couple 
of dull evenings, it is true, but when he afterwards met 
her on the Derby day on Mr. Thornthwaite’s drag in 
her black and crimson satin dress and sparkling with 
diamonds he did not feel the least uncomfortable. He 
remembered quite well with what mock gravity he had 
raised his hat to her and asked, “ Miss Hunter, I 
believe ? ” and with what a comical look of alarm she 
had placed f^er finger on her lips, and said, “ No, Mr. 
Fausterley ; can you have forgotten my name ? I am 
Miss Mabel de Huntingtower.” And then he had 
drank her health in a bumper of Heidsieck with a heart 
all the lighter for the thought that she had everything 
she wanted, and that he had not to bear the expense 
out of his scanty means, as he had been obliged to last 
year. 

Then why should he scruple to take Ella away from 
a man who did not appreciate her, even though that 
man did unfortunately happen to be his friend ? But 
though he argued thus with himself he was not 
comfortable. Suddenly he stopped in his walk. “ She 
was right,” he said, half aloud, while a shadow seemed 


120 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


to pass over his brow, and his face ^ew stem 
and hard. “ Let me at least be honest with myself. 
The part I am playing with Ronald is that of 
a mean and despicable blackguard. But I cannot 
turn back, for I love her. Fate is to blame, not 
I. Fate, that made her this man’s wife. Fate, that 
has bound together two uncongenial souls. Oh, if it 
had only been otherwise. Had she still been free, how 
I could have worshipped her — how she might have 
raised me above everything that is low and mean. 
Then I could have led her forth as my wife in the light 
of day, with no one to cast a word of reproach at her 
or at me ; but now the only path to her lies through the 
slime of false friendship and broken marriage vows. 
It is too late now, and though I had to pass through 
all the slime and filth in this great city to reach her, 
I can not and will not conceal my love for her.” 

While this train of thought was finding expression 
upon Fausterley’s lips, Mrs. Macleod was thinking 
no less earnestly about the communication which he 
had so lately made to her. She usually devoted to her 
children the half-hour or so which elapsed between her 
return from her drive and the ringing of the dressing- 
bell. 

Fausterley had lately brought them a fairy story 
in which they were de^ly interested, and Mrs. 
Macleod was reading it aloud to them. The day 
before, when the dressing bell rang, they had left 
Prince Amabilis utterly exhausted by a six hours’ 
combat with two fierce dragons, at the moment 
when his good sword “ Fendpierre,” rusted by the 
venom which his assailants had spat upon it, broke 
off short in his hands. The children, who would 
have considered it unfair to read a word further 
without their mother, had been anxiously waiting for 
her; and, therefore, the moment she came in they 
rushed up to her with the book, but she was in no 
humour for reading. 

“ Lily can read aloud and I’ll listen,” she said, — 
taking some work out of a little bag on the table and 
pretending to occupy herself with it, — “ as I want to 
finish this to-day.” But her hands played idly with 
the silks and her thoughts were far away while the 


kis LAST PASSION. Hi 

little girl read on in a monotonous voice of the 
difficulties of Prince Amabilis. 

“ I wonder what he can see to admire in a great big 
woman like that Lady Atherley,” thought Ella ; “ now if 
he had taken a fancy to that pretty little Mrs. Powell, 

I feel I shouldn’t have minded, but 1 suppose all men 
are little better than brutes. They like a woman because 
she is big and voluptuous-looking — they seem to think 
quantity not quality is the great aim to be attained.” 

“ At this moment Prince Amabilis thrust his hand into 
his bosom for the talisman which Princess Holdherz had 
given him, but to his dismay be remembered that the 
lovely fairy of the crooked ways had coaxed him to lend 
it to her, and that he had forgotten to get it back ; so 
the dragon Fauxamy seizing his wrists, and the dragon 
Luxeffreney clutching his ankles, they bore him with 
great rapidity across the sea.” So read Lily. Her eyes 
opened at their widest, stopping for a moment to ask, 
“ Isn’t it dreadful, mamma ? ” but not waiting for an 
answer. 

“ He shouldn’t have given up the talisman to that 
horrid fairy,” said Mrs. Macleod, who had caught the 
last few sentences. 

“ And yet I could show him that some men are 
capable of loving one woman and sticking to her,” she 
thought, continuing the train of her reflections, and 
letting the dragons fly off with the Prince unheeded. 

And then she spent some minutes in that most 
dangerous of occupations for a wife-comparing her 
husband and her friend. There was Fausterley, always 
attentive, always kind and considerate, always making 
her feel that with him she was unmistakably, pre- 
eminently the first of womankind; whereas, on the 
other hand, her husband was so often indifferent, 
sometimes unkind, always more polite and deferential 
to other women than to her, and in this comparison 
she forgot that the usages of society com- 
pelled him to be more attentive to strangers 
than to her. That she would have been dis- 
gusted, if he had done anything before people which 
could have been interpreted into that most odious of all 
qualities — uxoriousness ; and that she was always 
bored if he wanted to draw her on to his knee, or put 


122 


HIS LAST PASSIONi 


his arms round her and kiss her when they were alone. 
And so her thoughts ran on, until, when the dressing- 
bell rang, and the children, closing the book with 
regret, had scampered off to the nursery, she said with 
a sigh ; — 

“ Ah, how different it might have been if I had met 
Charlie first." 

“ What will you wear to-night, ma*am ? ” asked the 
maid, standing with the door of the wardrobe open in 
her hand. 

“ My dark green velvet, I think." 

“ It’s getting very shabby, ma’am, and master said 
he hated it last time you wore it." 

“ Never mind, we shall be quite alone to-night, and 
I must wear it out," answered Mrs. Macleod ; never 
thinking that if Lady Atherley were going to dine with 
Ronald she would be sure not to wear a worn-out dress 
— least of all a dress which she knew he disliked — 
though she did realise the fact that if Charlie had been 
likely to come in after dinner she would have chosen 
something fresher looking. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

MORNING REFLECTIONS* 

When Lady Atherley awoke on the morning after the 
spiritual siancey which ought to have been described in 
the eleventh chapter of this story, and which would 
inevitably have been found there if she and Ronald 
had not managed to sit so late over their dinner at the 
“ Holborn," she was suffering from a slight headache, 
which caused her to look round the room and mutter 
— as she stretched forth her well-rounded white arm and 
rang the bell for her morning coffee — “ What a brute 
he is I " This uncomplimentary epithet, which in- 
variably arose to her lips whenever she happened 
to awake with any bodily or mental ailment, was 


BIS LAST PASSION* 


123 


intended for her husband, who, allowing her immense 
liberty in many things concerning which most husbands 
are very particular, was yet a perfect tyrant in the matter 
of furnishing and decorating their connubial chamber. 
This room offered a strange contrast to the rest of the 
apartments in the house. It was large and lofty, but 
appeared singularly plain and bare. In the centre of it 
stood two narrow beds, from which every vestige of 
curtain had been ruthlessly banished. The walls were 
painted a dull cream colour, and were totally devoid of 
pictures. The carpet was of a dull, patternless red, and 
seemed to have been chosen on account of its ugliness. 
The only articles in the room which bore any 
testimony to the wealth of its occupants were 
the toilet table and full length cheval glass of in- 
laid ivory, and the handsome set of gold, crystal, 
and ivory toilet requisites. Why Sir Algernon insisted 
on this absence of ornament (or of decent comfort, as 
Lady Atherley called it), no one knew. When he was 
in a good humour he told her it was, as a contrast, to 
show off her beauty, as a gem of art is sometimes set 
in a plain black frame. At other times he said it was 
because it pleased him, and that was enough. At any 
rate. Lady Atherley always found in this whim of her 
husband’s a full explanation of any headache or other 
ill which might fall upon her, and a never-failing 
pretext for abusing him and justifying herself in any 
little fault which she might commit. 

She had tried hard to induce him to let her have 
a room of her own, but this he had resisted utterly. 

Wasting but very few moments in reflecting on the 
well-worn subject of her husband’s brutality. Lady 
Atherley soon passed to the pleasanter theme of her 
last night’s adventures. Her first thought of Ronald 
was “How noble he is — and how strong.” But this 
was followed immediately by another and less agreeable 
one, “He was stronger than I, and he has the right to 
despise me.” Then she regretted everything and felt 
that she would rather he had been different. How ? 
Well, any way; yes, even if he had not been so strong ; 
and from that time, though she felt that if he had taken 
advantage of her weakness she would have hated him, 
still with a want of logic which she could not have 


124 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


justified if she had tried, she could not forgive him for 
having allowed her to escape. Then as she lay there 
sipping her coffee she passed over in her mind several 
things which he had said to her. How foolish of him, 
for instance, to have spoken as he did about his wife ; 
what did she want to know about his love for her ? 
The idea of a man professing to love a woman and then 
maundering on about his bygone affection for his wife, 
telling her in fact, in so many words, “If my wife would 
only have loved me I should have been true to her, and 
then your attractions, great as I must own they are” (for 
he does certainly admire me) “ would have been power- 
less to draw me away from her ; but as she has willed 
it otherwise, and thrown my affection aside, I come and 
honour you with an offer of her leavings.” 

“No,” thought Lady Atherley, “ I am not to be 
won like that ; and to think that this man held me in 
his power I ” Then with a look of supreme scorn in her 
eyes she flung the coffee cup which she held in her 
hand violently on the floor. As it broke into fragments 
she was recalled to herself ; and when her maid who 
had heard the noise came in, she said calmly, “ I have 
dropped the cup, Brooks, but there’s no chance of 
spoiling anything in this horrid room. I’ll get up 
now.” 

Then while Brooks placed her dress in readiness for 
her, and swept away the fragments of broken china. 
Lady Atherley lay back with her eyes closed. She felt 
warm and comfortable now, and she pondered again 
over the events of the preceding night. She thought of 
all Ronald’s words, and then her indignation faded 
away. “There is something awfully nice about him, 
too; how bright his eyes were; how endearing his 
words. I wonder how he could have been so — so good ? 
But I’ni glad he was — ^yes, awfully glad; and yet I 
wonder if I should really have hated him : but this is 
folly,” and leaving her bed she cast these thoughts from 
her. 

After lunch she took up a novel and began to take 
an interest in the story. She looked at the clocks 
half-past four. 

“ I suppose Mr. Macleod will be calling here in about 
half-an-hour, and I shall have to put this book away,** 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


125 


But an hour passed, and he had not appeared. Lady 
Atherley, who had determined to treat him rather 
coldly, felt almost angry with him for not coming 
earlier. She rang the bell. 

“ Order the brougham round at once, and if anyone 
calls before it is here, I am not at home ; you can say 
I am just gone out,” she added, thinking that she would 
make Ronald regret his being late. 

But he, too, had pondered over the events of the 
previous evening, and he had come to the conclusion 
that cost him what it might he would not call for a few 
days. And so it happened that Lady Atherley had full 
time to dress and drive off in her carriage at her 
leisure ; for though other visitors came before she 
started, she saw that Ronald’s card was not among 
those lying on the Hall table. 

She drove to Mrs. Heathermount’s, and found her at 
home. After talking for half an hour upon politics and 
dress. Lady Atherley turned the conversation on the 
party of the other evening. 

“ I was so glad to see Count de Boisvillon again/* 
she said. 

“ Really — ^well, he complains that you treated him 
very badly, that you would hardly speak to him, 
and that you had not a word for anyone but Mr. 
Macleod.” 

“ Oh, yes ; I did get on very well with Mr. Macleod. 
He is so clever, he seems to talk so well on art or 
literature and all that sort of thing, and I do like a 
man who can talk like a rational creature, instead of 
supposing that every woman wants to be made a fool 
of.” 

“Yes, he is a very nice fellow; but I was rather 
afraid you might find him a little dull. However, 
he evidently enjoyed his evening very much, and 
he seems most anxious to meet you again; indeed, 
he almost had his wish, for he only left the house 
about five minutes before you came.” 

Lady Atherley rose to go. Then Macleod was not 
ill or detained upon business, and yet he had not come 
to see her, and after such a scene too. 

Ronald held out four days without calling, during 
which Lady Atherley’s feelings with regard to him 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


lad 

changed often. At first she was angry and determined 
to punish him by being very disagreeable to him. But 
on the third day it suddenly flashed upon her, “ He 
despises me.” 

The thought was maddening, for he might never 
come again. At all hazards she must see him again, 
and remove any bad impression which might remain 
on his mind, so she took up a pen and wrote : 

“ Dear Mr. Macleod, — To-morrow afternoon I have 
to go into the City, and expect to leave it at about half- 
past four. I shall be in the Charing Cross waiting 
room for a few minutes about five o’clock. Perhaps 
you would like to see me for a moment. 

“ Yours sincerely, 

« Ida a.” 

She felt sure he would come, and of course he 
went. She kept him waiting again, by calculation 
this time, not by carelessness, for she thought, 
firstly, that he might be late and that it 
would be intolerable to have to wait for him, and 
secondly, that one appreciates better anything one has 
become impatient about, provided, of course, that the 
impatience has not had time to wear out one’s temper. 
She timed her movements, therefore, so as to arrive at 
the rendezvous about half an hour late. 

Ronald — prepared by the fearful hour he had passed 
in that place a few days before — walked about the 
station with tolerable calmness, and he was only 
beginning to get uneasy when Lady Atherley’s carriage 
drove up. He stood back in the shadow of the door so 
that the servants might not see him. 

“ I am so sorry to see I am late again,” said Lady 
Atherley, with one of her sweetest smiles. “ Do tell 
me if you have been hating me all this time, and vowing 
that you will never meet me anywhere again ? ” 

“No, I hardly began to notice you were late ; this is 
nothing to the time I had to wait for you when we 
last met here,” said Ronald, naively. 

“ Now I know you are cross, or you would not 
remind me of my past sins, and make me feel that I am 
not worth waiting for.” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


1*1 


“ Oh, Ida, you know I would wait for you any time 
without a murmur, if I only knew you would come at 
last.” 

Ronald’s love was so visible in his eyes as he said 
this that she looked round in alarm lest anyone should 
notice them. But they were unobserved, and an 
expression of triumph passed over her face. He did 
not despise her, then. 

** When I think of you and know that I am going to 
meet yOu,” he continued, “ I seem to rise far above 
this world and to be walking in the clouds with the 
glorious blue of heaven above me ; but when you leave 
me waiting, scarcely daring to hope that you will really 
give me the great delight of seeing you, then I have 
leisure to look down and see that clouds are a very un- 
substantial footpath, and I shudder as I see the fearful 
rocks of despair which await me below the moment the 
hope of possessing you shall cease to sustain me.” 

She did not answer, but pressed his hand for an 
instant. 

“ We must not wait here,” she said, “it is so public.** 

“ Let us go somewhere, then.” 

“No, my servants would see me leave the station, 
and that would not do.” 

Ronald urged that they might walk out by Villiers 
Street and John Street, Adelphi, but he could think of 
no place to which he would care to take Lady Atherley, 
and she shook her head at the idea of going into some 
confectioner’s. 

“ It is tiresome,” she said, “ for I cannot stay here 
any longer, and I should have liked a chat with you. 
If you had only been a barrister I might have come to 
consult you upon some point or other in your chambers, 
but as you are not you had better let me give you a 
drive. Where shall we drive to? ” she asked. 

“ Anywhere; in the park if you like.” 

“ My dear boy, I don’t mind your being seen in my 
carriage if we chance to meet anyone I know, but at 
the same time I am not anxious to publish to the world 
the fact that Mr. Macleod is my devoted admirer.” 

“ When I am with you I am quite mad. I can 
think of nothing but my love for you, and I seem to 
lose any little caution I was ever possessed of. But, 


X29 


HIS LAST PASSIONi 


stop, I have an idea. Do you know anyone at 

Chelsea?” 

“ Yes ; I know Carlyle, but only very slightly.” 

“ Good. I have always loved him in ‘ Sartor 
Resartus,’ and venerated him for his ‘ Frederick,’ 
but I little thought he would be useful to me 
to-day. We can have a quiet drive all along the 
embankment, and then, when you have left a card upon 
him, what more natural than to take a drive in 
Battersea Park until it is time for you to return home ? ” 

They entered the carriage. 

Lady Atherley, satisfied that Ronald did not in any 
way think the less of her for her conduct, was in a 
charming mood. Still some evil genius seemed to 
possess Ronald. With an utter want of tact he always 
seemed to turn the conversation upon topics which 
were distasteful to his companion. At last he found 
himself questioning her upon her past life. 

“ What has happened to you to-day ?” she asked, 
as she fixed her large eyes steadily upon him, while a 
slight quiver of her lip showed that she was displeased. 
“ Has any one been telling you stories to my 
prejudice ?” 

“No, I have heard nothing against you, nor should 
I love you less if a thousand crimes were laid to your 
charge, for I cannot help it. I feel that I should so 
much like you to tell me that you had never loved any 
man before, or, at least that — that — ^you had never 
made any man completely happy.” 

She met his inquiring gaze with a look of calm 
defiance. 

“ My past is mine,” she said, coldly ; “ and it in no 
way concerns you. It would be easy for me to tell you 
pleasantly that you were the first man who had ever 
found the way to my heart, but I should scorn to tell 
you such a thing, because it would be unworthy of me, 
because it would imply that I had passed unspotted 
through the temptations of this world, which would be 
untrue ; and doubly unworthy of me, because it would 
imply that I loved you, which I do not.” 

These words cut Ronald to the heart, and he was 
silent. 

“ I am justly punished for my presumption,” he ss^d, 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


Z29 


after a few moments. “ Forgive me, my darling ; let 
the past be forgotten. You are right in saying that it 
concerns me not. What you say of the present is 
harder still, for I had begun to hope that you did love 
me a little ; but, at least, you have not said anything 
terrible with regard to the future.’* 

The carriage had stopped at Cheyne Walk, and the 
footman, having taken up Sir Algernon’s and Lady 
Atherley’s cards, was waiting for further orders. 
“ Home,” said Lady Atherley, and in obedience to her 
orders the carriage was turned round and the horses 
were started at a brisk pace. 

“ And is that your answer to my question about the 
future ? ” asked Ronald, who had looked forward to at 
least half an hour’s drive in Battersea Park. He was 
very pale, and he felt he could almost have bitten his 
tongue out for having asked her such unjustifiable 
questions. 

She saw his trouble, and her anger vanished. 

“ Oh, the future,” she said, smiling, “ who can tell? 
** I am no astrologer to tell what the future may bring 
forth, but I believe that the man who keeps some 
object steadily in view, and who can wait patiently for 
'it, will 

“ Be happy at last,” broke in Ronald, with a look of 
intense gratitude. 

“ I did not say that. I was only going to say, ‘ will 
attain his end.’ ” 

** Well, that is exactly the same thing in my case.” 

Though the conversation now became pleasanter, 
Ronald, taking warning by his former mistakes, took 
the first opportunity of leaving Lady Atherley, now 
that her equanimity had been restored, thanking her 
for her implied forgiveness, and promising faithfully 
not to behave so idiotically again. 

That evening Fausterley came to dine with the 
Macleods, and Ronald confided to him how tactless he 
had been. 

“ You ask me to be your counsel in this love affair of 
yours,” said the young barrister, laughing ; “ and I feel 
quite important at the idea of being called upon to give 
advice upon any subject whatever — but I’m hanged if 
I don’t chuck up your brief altogether if you go on like 


130 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


this — and then what a ridiculous thing, meeting a 
woman who is so well known in society, at a public place 
like a railway station, and driving about in an open car- 
riage. I think you must either be mad or anxious to 
afficher your new love.” 

“ Ah, yes, but what can I do ? How lucky you are to 
have chambers, where a fair client can come and consult 
you upon business.” 

“ The only fair clients that usually consult barristers 
are solicitors, and I for my part should rather see 
a good many of them than one of the opposite sex ; but 
if it is only chambers that you want you can get them 
without being called to the Bar.” 

“ Of course, I never thought of that,” said Ronald, 
delighted with the idea ; and before the two friends 
went up to the drawing-room it had been arranged that 
Fausterley should find out some comfortably furnished 
rooms in a quiet neighbourhood, take them for a couple 
of friends who were coming up from the country, pay 
the first week’s rent in advance, and bring Ronald the 
latch key. 

Before Fausterley left he managed to find an oppor- 
tunity of reporting the whole scheme to Mrs. Macleod. 

“ It looks as if he were very much smitten,” said 
Ella, “ but I don’t want to know any more about it ; 
I am sick of the whole subject.” 

That night Ella felt almost like a criminal as she lay 
down beside Ronald. She was on the point of warning 
him that he was watched, and that his every move- 
ment would be reported to her, but she thought she 
would sound him first and see if he would on his side 
be willing to make a confession. 

“ I wonder you never go in for a flirtation now, as 
you used to,” she said. 

“I am getting too old ; after a certain age these 
things pall upon one.” 

“ And yet I fancied you got on with Lady Atherley 
at the Heathermounts’ pretty well.” 

“Yes, she was very agreeable. I hope we shall meet 
them again ; they would be very nice people to know.” 

“ I expect you would be quite satisfied if you got to 
know her only, and that you would not much care if 
you never saw him again.” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


131 


“Not at all; she would be nothing without him. 
It is just because she is his wife that she is someone, 
in a worldly point of view.” 

How could Ella tell him anything when he talked 
like that. And then if she did warn him against 
Fausterley there would inevitably be a breach between 
them, and though she could not help thinking Charlie 
was acting meanly in playing the spy upon a man who 
confided in him, yet she remembered that this under- 
hand action was committed out of the depth of his love 
for her, and she was sure that for no other motive in 
the world would he have been guilty of anything to which 
the most punctilious could object. And, besides, it 
was so pleasant to have a man constantly about her who 
always placed her far above all else in the world, who 
worshipped her as Charlie did. Ah ! if she had only 
met him before Ronald, what a very different woman 
she would have been. 

The next day Mr. Fausterley walked into Macleod’s 
ofi&ce, and, throwing a little packet on the table, he said : 

“ Here is the key of Paradise.” 

“ And where is my Agapemone situated ? ’* asked 
Macleod, as he gratefully pressed his friend’s hand. 

“ Here is the address. It is one of the streets running 
out of Eaton Square ; very quiet -looking outside, but a 
perfect gem inside. There are only two rooms, which 
belong to a young artist, who has just furnished them 
in the most exquisite taste ; but, as he goes away in the 
summer months to paint, he is glad to let them for the 
moderate sum of three guineas a week. I thought it 
was rather dear, but everything was so clean and 
tasteful about them that I thought you would not 
mind, and I have taken them for a week.” 

“ Thanks ; it is awfully good of you to be so prompt ; 
and what did you say about my coming in ? ” 

“ I told the landlady that I could not tell what day 
you would arrive, but that you would be there before 
ten o’clock when you did come ; and as I gave her very 
good references and her three guineas down, she was 
satisfied. Now, when you do go there, you can go in 
by yourself and see her, and afterwards you can be on 
the look-out and let your inamorata in yourself, so that 
no servant need see her,” 


*32 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


“ Thanks, old fellow, what a splendid Sganarelle you 
would have made.” 

“ Yes ; and I think I should have had a more success- 
ful career than the bar seems to hold out to me.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

HIS HONOUR — AND HERS. 

Two days later, as Ronald was musing at his desk, 
mechanically glancing over business letters and won- 
dering when he should be able to .take Ida to see his 
newly- acquired rooms, a telegram arrived. It was from 
Sir Algernon, and ran as follows : 

“ We have a box at the Lyceum to-night. If you 
care to come we dine at seven. Don’t trouble to 
answer.” 

The telegraph boy, accustomed to wait for answers, 
was standing there stolidly. Ronaldj who felt the 
blood rushing to his temples, took a telegraph form 
from his desk and wrote : “ Thanks, I shall be delighted 
to come,” and handed it, with a shilling, to the boy, 
who shuffled out of the room, while Ronald glanced at 
the telegram again. His . eye fell on the last words, 
which he had not noticed before. He was only just in 
time to stop the boy. 

“ Give me the message and keep the shilling,” 
he said to the boy, who handed him back the form and 
rushed out, half-afraid that the gentleman might repent 
of his generosity before he could reach the street. 

“ What a fool I am,” thought Ronald. “ Of course, 
she sent me the telegram, and she does not want an 
answer. Perhaps he is away, and we shall be alone.” 

But suddenly it occurred to him : “I cannot accept 
this box from a man whom I am striving to injure. How 
pan I eat his^alt when I am only waiting a favourable 


HIS LAST PASSION. I33 

opportunity to rob him of the greatest treasure he 
possesses in the world ? ” 

Then his joy was turned to heaviness ; and how could 
he excuse his non-acceptance of her invitation ? Was 
there any possible engagement which he would not, and 
ought not to, fling aside, for the chance of seeing and 
speaking to her ? and to tell her the truth would be to 
cast a slur upon her, to say to her “ I am more virtuous 
and upright than you, since you offer me something 
which I should be ashamed to accept.” The only way 
he could think of, was to pretend that he had not 
received her invitation till the following morning. “ OA, 
la fange de VaduUeve I*' he thought, as he gloomily re- 
solved to adopt this course. 

As he walked home that afternoon he turned into the 
park. Though the weather was still cold, the drive 
was beginning to fill with carriages. As Ronald walked 
down beside the rails, thinking how he longed to accept 
the invitation which his better feelings prompted him 
to ignore, he felt a hand on his shoulder. The hand 
was Barbour’s. 

“ Hallo, old fellow,” said he, as he linked his arm in 
Ronald’s, “this is rather more like it; by Jove, I’m 
quite proud to walk with you now ; will you take a 
turn with me ?” 

“It is only right that the master should have a 
chance of exhibiting his chef d' oeuvre ” answered Ronald, 
smiling good humouredly. 

“Well, my two chef d' oeuvres f said Barbour, 
with a wave of his hand towards Ronald, and a 
• glance of great satisfaction at his own attire, “are 
decidedly making an impression ; why look at that 
carriage, there is a devilish fine woman in it who 
is evidently taken by storm.” Ronald turned his head. 
There, close beside him, were the Atherleys — contrary 
to their usual custom — driving together. Ronald would 
have passed with a bow, but the carriage stopped at 
that moment, and he felt bound to come forward and 
speak. 

Greatly to Barbour’s delight Ronald introduced him 
to his friends, and he immediately began a conver- 
sation with Sir Algernon, who said he would get down 
for a minute and stretch his legs. 


134 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


“ Are you coming to-night ? ” asked Lady Atherley, 
in a low tone. 

“ Where to ? ” 

** Did you not get my telegram, this afternoon ? ” 

. No ; I left my office early.” 

At this moment Sir Algernon turned round and 
made some remark to Ronald, and Barbour seized the 
opportunity of speaking to Lady Atherley. 

“ Do you often ride in the park ? ” he asked. 

“Not very often. Are you fond of riding ? ” 

“ Yes, pretty well. I shall look out for you some of 
these mornings. I ride a large chestnut with a white 
star on his forehead.” 

Ronald, who knew that his collaborateur was invari- 
ably at his desk during the morning, and that he 
neither possessed nor hired a horse, was astounded at 
the coolness with which he made this announcement, 
in a tone which could not fail to reach his ears. 

“ And do you ride much, too, Mr. Macleod ? ” asked 
Lady Atherley, who was rather bored with Mr. Bar- 
bour’s inane manner. 

“ Oh, no ; I can’t get away in the mornings. I have 
to stick to my desk,” said Ronald, with an amused look 
at Barbour. 

“You City men all say that,” answered Lady Atherley, 
“ and we picture you in some dingy office, turning over 
piles of musty registers and adding up immense pages 
of figures, while I daresay you are really enjoying a 
game of billiards and a cigar in some comfortable 
club.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Barbour, hastening to give his 
friend what he called “ a leg up.” “ Some men, 
of course, do that sort of thing, but Mr. Macleod is 
quite blameless in that way. Why, to-day, for instance, 
he came to his office at nine o’clock, and never even 
left his room for a moment till five, and he does that 
nearly every day.” 

Macleod scowled so fiercely at this announcement 
that Barbour began to wonder whether he> too, was 
going to endeavour to assume a military appear- 
ance, and to keep the “ shop” as much as possible in 
the background. 

Sir Algernon had moved off a few paces, and 


HIS LAST PASSION. I35 

Barbour, who felt that he had made some mistake, 
sidled awa}' after him, twirling his moustache. 

“ So you got my telegram and yet you are not 
coming,” said Lady Atherley, hurriedly, with that 
peculiar hard expression which had so much alarmed 
Ronald at the Holborn. “ I should have thought you 
would have been glad to put aside any engagement for 
me, but I suppose my vanity has led me to misread 
you.” 

“You know how I long to come, but I cannot be his 
guest.” 

“If you are going to talk nonsense of that sort, I 
think it is time our acquaintance ceased.” 

Ronald felt as if he had been guilty of some crime as 
he stood there before her cold disdainful glance. 

“ Forgive me,” he said, “ I will come to-night. I 
will do anything, only forgive me ! ” 

“No, you shall not come to-night, and unless you 
immediately ask some favour of my husband, I shall 
consider you as a casual acquaintance henceforth. 
What ! you pretend to care for me, to worship the 
earth beneath my feet, and you hesitate to do violence 
to a Quixotic feeling to gain a whole evening with me.” 

“For you I will give up everything — even my 
position,” answered Ronald, who felt his face flushing 
with shame, as he realized the fact of his disloyalty to 
his own family, 

“And what do you ask me to give up for you?” 
asked Lady Atherley, haughtily. “ Is my honour of so 
much less consequence than yours ?” 

Sir Algernon was coming back to the carriage. 

“ Remember,” said Lady Atherley; and then turning 
to her husband, she said, “ Mr. Macleod wants to ask 
you to do something for him, and he does not like to.” 

“ What can I do for you ?” asked Sir Algernon, 
pompously. “ Of course you know that I have not 
much power while the Radicals are in, but I daresay if 
it is not anything very important I may be able to 
manage it.” 

In the midst of Ronald’s embarrassment he suddenly 
bethought him of Mr. Terbage, the poor old clerk who 
had worked so hard for him at Sandborough during the 
election. “ Thank Heaven,” he thought, “ the mean 


HIS last passion. 


136 

action ■which she forces me to perform may profit 
someone.” 

“ My request is not a very formidable one,” said 
Ronald ; “ there is an old man who worked very hard 
in the Conservative cause the other day, and I am most 
anxious to get his grandson a post as messenger in 
some Government office. 

“ Is that all ? ” 

And taking a card from his card-case, he wrote on 
the back of it, “I shall be much obliged if you will 
give the bearer of this the 'first messengership that 
may become vacant under your board.” 

“There,” he said, “ if your pyot6g& will take that to 
Sir John Tuke, Somerset House, the thing is done, 
provided the lad can read and write. You will see 
that I am able to help a friend sometimes, notwith- 
standing the fact that the cold shadow of opposition 
is hanging over our party.” 

Lady Atherley smiled approvingly at Ronald, who 
had earned her forgiveness by his prompt obedience to 
her whim. But she was not quite satisfied. She felt 
that he must give her proof that he would not sin 
again ; so turning to her husband she said, 

“ I have asked Mr. Macleod to dine with us to- 
morrow, and as he has no engagement he is going to 
forgive the shortness of the invitation and come ; I told 
him we should be quite alone.” 

“ I am very glad, I’m sure,” said Sir Algernon. 
“ I have asked Mr. Harcourt, who was my colleague 
at the last election, and who was, unfortunately, about 
a hundred votes behind me and did not get in, but 
otherwise we shall be alone.” 

Ronald had not the courage to refuse. 

“Thanks,” he said, “it is very kind of you;” and 
with a bow to Lady Atherley he walked on. 

He would have given much to avoid this dinner, for 
the idea of taking anything from Ida’s husband was 
hateful to him ; but he felt that there was no help for 
it, and that he must either overcome these feelings or 
give up many opportunities of seeing her, and perhaps 
even lose her altogether. 

Lady Atherley, who was not quite sure that her 
lover would not repent at the last moment and send 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


X37 


some excuse for not coming, was radiant when he 
arrived, and at dinner she looked at him so kindly that 
he was quite afraid her glances might be noticed either 
by Mr. Harcourt or her husband. 

Then, too, it was so tantalising not to be able to 
touch her hand, so that he felt he contributed very 
little to the general conversation, but sat wondering 
whether he should be able to manage to see her alone 
for a few minutes. 

When she left the table. Sir Algernon opened a 
cabinet, which stood near the fire-place, and brought 
out a small drawer containing cigars, which he offered 
to his guests. Ronald, who at first refused, ended 
by selecting a very small one on being pressed 
by Sir Algernon, who was proud of his cigars. 
But small as it was, Ronald cut a good bit off the 
end, and when he had lighted it smoked it as fast 
as he could. The conversation turned chiefly on the 
events of Sir Algernon’s election, and he and Mr. 
Harcourt tried to account for the defeat of the latter — 
going over the names of those voters whom they 
imagined had gone back from their promises, and 
planning how to gain them back in the event of 
another campaign. Then they began considering for 
what borough Mr. Harcourt might stand again. 

Meantime Ronald, who had succeeded in finishing 
his cigar, rose and said, 

“You must have a good deal to talk about, which 
you could discuss better without me, and so if you will 
excuse me I will go upstairs and ask Lady Atherley for 
a little music.” 

Sir Algernon, who suddenly remembered that the 
conversation had been made interesting for one of 
his guests at the expense of the other, felt rather vexed 
with himself. He hastened to apologize to Ronald, 
and begged him to have another glass of wine ; but 
though Macleod was sorry to give his host any feeling 
of uneasiness, he felt that his apparent want of tact was 
the only means of seeing Lady Atherley alone for a few 
minutes, and consequently, refusing Sir Algernon’s offer 
in his blandest manner, he left the room and walked 
up to the drawing-room. 

To his great disappointment he found it empty. 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


138 

How could he let Lady Atherley know that he was 
there ? He felt certain that Sir Algernon and Mr. 
Harcourt would come upstairs as soon as their cigars 
were finished, so that the utmost time he could count 
upon was from ten minutes to a quarter of an hour, 
and it was too hard to lose even an instant of that 
precious time. 

Unfortunately he could not play, although years ago 
he had learnt one or two waltzes, which he had long 
since forgotten. However, something must be done, so 
opening the door wide, and sitting down at the piano, 
he boldly made a dash at the “ Guards ” waltz. It was 
a fearful performance, for his fingers had become stiff 
during the long years which had passed since he last 
made such a use of them, and the number of wrong 
notes which he played with his left hand, bid fair to 
disguise the air, which he managed rather better with 
his right. 

“ If she can hear this,” he thought, “ she will lose no 
time in coming to put a stop to it.” 

He was right ; he had not been pla5dng more than 
a minute when he saw her standing in the doorway. 

“ I had no idea you were a musician,” she said 
laughingly, as she came in and closed the door. 

“ You understood my music. I hoped you would, 
and I sincerely trust that downstairs it may not have 
been very audible ; but perhaps they will think it is some 
of the music of the future.” 

She came up to him and put her hands on his 
shoulders. He passed his arm round her waist and 
drew her to him. 

“ Why, you have been smoking,” she said. 

“Yes; I could not well get out of it to-night, but I 
am so sorry if you dislike it.” 

“ I love it ; but as you wouldn’t do it at the Holborn 
Eestaurant the other night I thought you did not care 
about it.” 

“ That was only because I fancied you might dislike 
it afterwards, if I should happen to kiss you in the 
cab.” 

“ You dear boy 1 But they will be wondering why 
you have stopped your extraordinary symphony.” 

He rose, and she took his place at the piano, and 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


139 


whil^ she allowed her fingers to wander over the keys, 
playing a medley of half-forgotten pieces, he spoke 
to her of his love, and told her of the rooms that 
were waiting for her, if she would deign to meet him 
any afternoon and acccept his hospitality. But she 
only shook her head and smiled as she looked into his 
eyes. 

“ It would be too compromising,” she said at last. 

Then he explained how he could go to the rooms first, 
and let her in without even a servant seeing her either 
as she came or went, so that it would be impossible for 
anyone to know of her visit. 

But still she shook her head, and said : But we 
should know it — ^you and I — and that is already too 
much in itself.” 

Then he urged her to fix some early day to meet him 
or drive with him again; to go anywhere where he 
could see her and speak to her. She had just ceased 
playing, when they heard voices on the stairs. 

“ I will write,” she said, hurriedly. 

Ronald was standing very near her — too near, he felt, 
but he could not get away farther from her without 
running the risk of being seen moving away, so he 
snatched a song from the music stand beside him, and 
said : 

“ Do sing this. I am so fond of it.” 

He had not even had time to see if it was a 
song or a piece of music, but it fortunately happened to 
be “ Ay Chiquita.” 

“ It is a very old song,” said Lady Atherley, “ but I 
will sing it if you like it.” 

Then, as the rich full tones of her voice filled the 
room, the plaintive melody seemed to penetrate Ronald’s 
soul, and though he had heard the song a hundred 
times, he found in it a charm he had never known 
before. 

As the words at the end “ la movie de d^sespoir ” died 
away, and the room was silent, even Mr. Harcourt, who 
was not an impressionable man, rose from his seat and 
coming across the room said, “ What an exquisite 
song.” 

Sir Algernon was proud of his wife’s voice and asked 
her to sing it again, but she felt that an impression 


140 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


such as she had just made cannot be immediately 
repeated, so she took up something more cheerful and 
sang that instead. 

Ronald found it so difficult to take any part in the 
general conversation which followed that he left as 
soon as he could. 

For some days he looked anxiously for a letter, but 
none came. He called on the fourth day, but Lady 
Atherley was out. Could she have forgotten her 
promise to write to him, or was it that she did not care 
much to see him and intended leaving their next 
meeting to chance ? He longed to write, but he knew 
so little of the Atherleys that he could not tell whether 
Sir Algernon might not open his wife’s letters. It 
behoved him, then, to be very careful how he wrote, for 
write he must. After much consideration he sent her 
the following note, hoping she would read between the 
lines — 

“ Dear Lady Atherley, — I have been trying to get 
that lovely song you sang to us the other evening, but 
in vain. ‘ Je sais qii& fen vais mouviv ’ is one of the 
lines in it, and I daresay you will understand what I 
mean, though the shopmen where I have tried for it 
could not recognise it by those words. I would not 
have troubled you to send me the name of it, but I 
unfortunately missed you when I called to-day, and 
I am very anxious to get the song. 

“ I am, yours faithfully, 

“ Ronald Macleod.** 

At least there was nothing compromising in such a 
note,' but would she understand the expression of 
anxiety which he meant to convey to her in the line of 
the song he had selected ? 

The next day he received a short note in reply : — 

“ Dear Mr. Macleod, — The name of the song is 
‘ Ay Chiquita.’ It is an old song now, and may be 
difficult to get. Sir Algernon is going down to Holbeach 
to-morrow to a Conservative luncheon, and I shall 
follow him in the afternoon, as I want to hear hi m 
speak at a banquet in the evening. 

“ Yours sincerely, 

“ Constance Atherley.” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


I4I 

^ She had understood, then, but it would have been 
kinder if she had told him by what train she w^s going 
— waiting is so trying. So thought Ronald, but when 
he had taken up a railway-guide and found that the 
only trains to Holbeach started at eleven o’clock in 
the morning, and a quarter to three and a quarter to 
six in the afternoon, he understood that Sir Algernon 
inust go by the first train, and that in order to arrive in 
time for a banquet. Lady Atherley would have to go by 
the second. Armed with this knowledge, Ronald was at 
King’s Cross Station at half-past two. This time he had 
not many minutes to wait ; but when Lady Atherley 
arrived there was very little time for taking her ticket, 
and seeing her into the train, but Ronald found time to 
tell her how anxious he had been about her not writing 
to him. 

“ But I never write,” said Lady Atherley, “ and you 
must do as you think best — just as if I had no power 
to put pen to paper. I may send a telegram, but you 
must never expect a letter from me.” 

“But can I write to you ?” 

“Yes, if your letters arrive between ten and two ; at 
Other times they are not safe. For instance, your letter 
about the song arrived last night when we were at 
dinner, and my husband asked me from whom it came. 
I did not know what madness you might have been 
guilty of ; and I suppose I looked a little disconcerted, 
for he asked me to show it to him. I threw it to him 
unopened. He hesitated for a moment, and then opened 
it. He read it aloud to me, and I was so thankful for 
your caution. He seemed half ashamed of himself all 
the evening after, and when I wrote the reply to 
your letter and handed him my answer, he folded it for 
me and put it in an envelope without looking at it. I 
don’t think he will open a letter from you again, but it is 
better that he should not see many in your handwriting ; 
and besides I cannot trust him, so be very careful not 
to write unless you are sure that I am in town — and 
even then don’t say anything compromising if you can 
help it.” 

Ronald had scarcely time to promise that he would 
be circumspect before the train started off. The inter- 
view had been short, but he felt happy, for it seemed to 


142 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


him that unless Lady Atherley returned his love she 
could hardly give him so much encouragement. 

But as the train bore her away she was thinking : 
“ I suppose I am behaving very badly to Ronald, for I 
don’t think I really love him ; but then it is so hard to 
be nasty to a man when he is so fond of me, and I 
think, poor fellow, it would kill him if I were to change 
towards him now. Then what woman would refuse to be 
flattered and surrounded by so nice a young man ? But 
what is the use of bothering about it ? I suppose he 
will get over it gradually, and things will come all 
right in the end.” And, settling herself comfortably to 
read a paper which she had brought with her, Ronald’s 
image soon passed out of her mind. 


CHAPTER XV. 

MISS GOOSEBERRY. 

Days passed away and brought Ronald no tidings of 
Lady Atherley. He called at her house and was told 
that she was out of town. She had been staying a few 
days in the country with a Mrs. Langmore, an old 
friend of her mother’s, who had a very pretty house 
down near Maidenhead, where she lived during the 
summer with her only daughter, Maud. But at the 
same time she always kept a set of rooms furnished in 
Victoria Square, so that if the weather was bad she and 
her daughter could come up to town at a moment’s 
notice and escape the dulness of the country. 

Maud Langmore had the highest admiration for 
Lady Atherley, to whom she looked up with all the 
deference which a young girl feels for a woman of the 
world. Kept under strict surveillance by her mother, 
not allowed to read a novel or to see a play unless Mrs. 
Langmore had satisfied herself that it was strictly 
blameless, she was yet allowed to go about with Lady 
Atherley whenever she was asked. Careful never to 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


*43 


say anything which might make her friend less anxious 
to take her about, she often saw things which she could 
not think right, although she never showed that she 
disapproved of them. By degrees Lady Atherley had 
acquired the habit of speaking quite freely to her, 
and she had become deeply interested in Captain 
Greville. 

“ How lucky you are, Constance,” she would say, “to 
have plenty of money and a man who adores you 
besides ; ah, poor me, I shall neveir have either. And 
then Lady Atherley would kiss her and tell her that 
all that would come in time. It happened that on the 
day Lady Atherley’s visit to the Langmores was over, 
the weather had become very wet and cold, and Maud 
had persuaded her mother to let her go up with their 
guest to London, and Lady Atherley had promised to 
go up to Victoria Square and stay the night there with 
her, and, if the weather remained cold, Mrs. Langmore 
was to come up on the following day. 

“ Isn’t this perfect ? ” said Maud, as they travelled up 
to town ; “ now you must promise to have some fun to- 
night, and take me to some nice bad theatre or something 
deliciously naughty.” 

“ What do you think of dining at the Criterion, and 
going to the Alhambra afterwards ? ” 

“ Oh, it would be pure,” said Maud, her large, dark 
eyes growing larger, and her pearly teeth glistening in 
the sun. “ But could we go without a gentleman ? ” 

“No, but it is easy to get one. I will telegraph to a 
friend of mine, a Mr. Macleod, and I am sure he will 
come if he possibly can.” 

“ Oh, but is it quite safe to let him know ? ” 

“ My dear Maud, I am sure you might trust him with 
anything ; he is an awfully nice fellow too, only a little 
too sentimental.” 

“ How delightful ! ” 

“Well, you must be very nice to him, and I am sure 
he will fall in love with you.” 

“ Not when you are there, Constance.” 

“ Ah ! that is just it. He is very fond of me, but 
when he compares me with you he will see how much 
younger and fresher you are, and be certain to transfer 
his allegiance.” 


144 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


rm afraid that is not likely, though it would be 
much better as you are married.” 

“ Well, but so is he.” 

‘‘ Oh, I say, Constance, doesn’t it sound wicked ?”^ 

“ Yes ; but * pure,’ as you would say. How I wish 
you could get him to like you. I am tired of him, for 
though I like him very much I feel he is too exigeant, 
and will be satisfied with nothing less than a serious 
passion. Now of course, as you have no ties, and you 
often have spare time on your hands, it would be a 
pleasant distraction for you — if you could take a fancy 
to him — only you must be careful of him, for he is 
awfully affectionate.” 

Lady Atherley looked into Maud’s eyes as she said 
this, with a little funny smile which made the girl blush. 

When the train arrived at the station. Lady Atherley 
sent a telegram to Ronald as follows : — 

Just returned to town ; have to dine with a friend 
at the Criterion to-night ; will you come too ? ” 

During the days that Ronald had heard no tidings Oi 
Constance he had had more time to think of his private 
affairs, and he found that monetary matters were not 
by any means a. pleasant theme to think upon. He 
had, however, been able in a business transaction to 
oblige a director of an important railway very, con- 
siderably, and this gentleman had told him that a 
scheme of fusion was on foot between his board and 
that of a neighbouring company, which, if carried, 
would greatly increase the market value of the shares 
of both companies. In fact, the vague rumours of 
the scheme which had oozed out had of themselves 
raised the price three or four per cent., and Ronald’s 
friend had promised to let him have the earliest intelli- 
gence as to the success or failure of the scheme, on con- 
dition that he should not buy or sell more than ten 
thousand of the stock. At the time Lady Atherley had 
despatched her telegram to him Ronald was waiting 
anxiously for a message from his friend the director. 
When, therefore. Lady Atherley’s telegram was brought 
in he tore open the envelope eagerly, and was delighted 
to find that it came from her. But who could the friend 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


145 

be ? Of course, he would dine with her. When he had 
cross-questioned her about her former life he had filled 
his mind with doubts. What if the friend should be a 
former lover ? He could not bear to see them together, 
guessing their past. He resolved that he would find out 
who this friend was, and be guided by circumstances as 
to whether he would dine with her or not. 

He accordingly telegraphed : — 

** Delighted. You mention no hour. I will call 
about five at the address you give. If you are out, 
please leave word where and when to meet you.” 

He also prepaid a reply, hoping that when the tele- 
graph boy should say that he was waiting for an answer 
she might send one. 

The weather had been clearing up all day and the 
sun had now come out bright and warm, and Ronald 
felt thoroughly happy. His pen went so glibly that he 
felt certain his work would all be finished in time to 
drive to Victoria Square by five o’clock. Another 
telegram was brought to him. “ How good of her to 
answer,” thought Ronald, but on opening it he found it 
was from his friend the director, and contained only 
these words, “ Fallen through.” Impatiently crushing 
it up in his hand he tossed it into the fire and dismissed 
the telegraph boy. His heart was too full of the 
meeting in store for him to let him pay any attention 
to money matters, and he went on writing mechanically 
in order to get his work finished. 

At a few minutes to five he was driving down Jthe 
Buckingham Palace Road, when just as he was getting 
to Victoria Square a hansom passed him with Lady 
Atherley and Maud Langmore in it. They had not 
seen him, and their hansom dashed on. Frantically 
waving his stick, Ronald stopped his own cab and 
promised the cabman half-a-crown if he could catch the 
cab which had just passed. It was an exciting chase for 
Ronald, who feared that he might lose sight of it. 
But as they were passing Buckingham Palace he over- 
took it, and succeeded in stopping both cabs. Spring- 
ing into the road, which was still muddy from the 
morning’s rain, he tpok Lady Atherley’s hand. 


K 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


140 

** Are you coming to-night ? ” she said, rather pleased 
that Maud Langmore should see how delighted he was 
to meet her. 

“ Oh, of course I am coming ; but at what time ? 

“ Half-past seven. This is the friend who is to dine 
with us ; let me introduce you. Miss Langmore — Mr. 
Macleod.” 

Ronald’s face had looked happy before, but when he 
heard that the friend whom he had so dreaded was not 
her former lover, not even a man at all, it became 
perfectly radiant ; and as he stood there full in the 
sunlight, heedless alike of the mud which the passing 
cabs flung upon him and of the passers-by who stared 
at seeing a man stopping in such an inconvenient place, 
Maud knew at once that his was no passing fancy for 
Lady Atherley, but a deep and true passion. 

When a moment later they drove off and Lady 
Atherley asked her what she thought of their escort, 
she answered : — 

“He looks nice enough, but I am afraid he will wish 
I had stayed away, and it is quite evident that there is 
no fear of his being so obliging as to take a fancy to 
me, as you had so prettily arranged that he should.” 

“ Well, who can tell ? It is true he is ‘ gone * on me 
now, but though he is a dear good fellow, I wish for 
both your sakes, he would fall in love with you, for I 
really feel rather guilty about him ; but I have every 
confidence in those eyes of yours, if you only care to 
use them.” 

Shortly before the appointed hour Ronald was 
standing at the centre door of the “ Criterion.” He 
lighted a cigar, fearing that it was only too probable 
he would have time to smoke it before the ladies arrived. 
People were arriving ; now and then some young man with 
a crutch-stick in his hand and a tooth-pick in his mouth, 
would come and look at the menu^ and either go 
in or turn away according as the dishes offered suited 
his taste or not. Some diners slunk in as if they were 
ashamed to be seen going there. Others strutted in as 
if they thought it rather “ the swagger thing,” as they 
would express it. A rustic-looking woman with a 
young couple of somewhat similar appearance stood 
opposite the entrance for a moment and they peered in, 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


147 


with a look of awe upon their countenances while she 
told them what a grand place it was, adding, with mani- 
fest pride, “ I’ve dined there once, Charlie Green took 
me there — you know Charlie, from old Tibbalt’s farm, 
well, ’e took me, and done the thing like a real gentle- 
man, I can tell you. Champagne ! Lord it was fine to 
’ear ’im swear at the waiters just as if the ’ole place was 
his.” 

But though there was plenty for Ronald to look at, 
he could not help beginning to feel a little nervous 
when he saw that his cigar was getting very short and 
the ladies did not appear. 

At last, about eight o’clock, they arrived. Then 
Ronald’s heart was full of joy. The party walked 
through the brilliantly lighted room and found a 
little table in one corner disengaged. All three were 
determined to enjoy themselves, and they did. Miss 
Langmore thought the whole thing “ so delightfully 
Bohemian,” as she expressed it — “ so fast ” she really 
meant — though she would not say so to a stranger like 
Ronald. 

Ronald, for his part, was quite carried away by his 
spirits, for every remark made by his companions he 
found some jest, foolish or brilliant, but always uttered 
with such gaiety of heart that his hearers laughed 
heartily with him, and though Lady Atherley had felt 
a little dull at first, both she and Maud Langmore 
ended by catching Ronald’s mad humour, and they all 
three laughed so much that the people at the next table 
began to notice them. 

“ Now, Miss Langmore, you really must behave more 
decorously,” said Ronald, with a gesture towards an 
elderly snuff-begrimed Scotchman at the next table, 
who, with a pencil in his hand, was carefully adding up 
his bill. “ Don’t you see there’s a ‘ chief amang ye 
takin’ notes ’ ? ” 

“And faith he’ll prent it,” added Lady Atherley, 
finishing the quotation. 

“ No matter,” answered Maud Langmore, “ I can tell 
by his whole appearance that he is a writer of fashion- 
able intelligence for Truth or some such paper, and of 
course if he puts it in that everybody will say it 
can’t be true.” 


148 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


“ Yes ; say it is false, and believe it as though it were 
gospel,” answered Lady Atherley. 

“ If that’s all the faith they’ll put in it,” retorted 
Ronald, “ we may let the old fellow take notes to his 
heart’s content.” 

During a momentary pause in the conversation 
Ronald heard a gentleman at a neighbouring table say 
that there had been almost a panic on the Stock 
Exchange late that afternoon. 

“ This is interesting,” said Ronald to Lady Atherley. 
“ I want to hear about this panic.” 

They listened for a moment, and heard how the 
failure of the fusion scheme, of which Ronald had had 
notice, had been officially announced at three o’clock, 
and how the stock of the railway in which his friend 
was a director had fallen nearly five per cent, in half 
an hour. 

“ What a bore,” said Ronald, ** and to think that I 
had the intelligence nearly two hours before it was 
announced.” 

“ Then you made money,” said Lady Atherley, who 
did not understand the mysteries of “bull” and “bear,” 
but who knew that to speculators early intelligence 
of any event generally means profit. 

“ No,” said Ronald, “ I didn’t, but I ought to have,” 
and, as he thought how an order to sell' “ ten ” of the 
stock would have paid a considerable portion of those 
election expenses which he found so inconvenient, a 
momentary cloud passed over his brow. 

But in an instant he was as gay as ever, for he 
thought, “ What is money compared to a priceless 
evening like this ? ” 

The dinner was over. Macleod called for the bill. 
Lady Atherley felt embarrassed for a moment, she who 
fancied that the situation was not invented which 
could embarrass her. She had asked Ronald to dine 
with her, she knew him to be badly off, and felt that she 
did not like to let him pay for the dinner, neither did 
she like to run the risk of wounding his feelings by 
paying herself. 

“ You have asked for the bill,” she said at last, feeling 
that something must be done, and at the same time 
half-timidly placing her purse beside him on the table. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


149 


Ronald’s first impulse was to push it way and say 

How absurd,” but he divined her embarrassment, and 
he therefore merely took the purse and put it in his 
pocket. When the bill was brought he paid it with 
his own money, and later in the evening he handed the 
purse back to Lady Atherley, who was charmed at the 
way in which he had got over the difficulty. When 
the trio came downstairs they had not decided how 
they should spend the remainder of the evening. For 
a few minutes they stood at the entrance of the 
“ Criterion ’’ deliberating. 

“It is too late for any theatre,” said Ronald, 
“ except the Alhambra.” 

“ I know people go to that rather late,” said Lady 
Atherley. “ Shall we go there ?” 

All three seemed undecided. It was a lovely evening 
in the beginning of July, and the air was soft and 
delicious. 

“ How perfect to be by the sea to-night,” said Miss 
Langmore. 

“ Yes, heavenly,” said Lady Atherley. 

“But would it not be better to choose some nearer 
place for to-night,” hazarded Ronald. 

“ Let us walk along a little and deliberate as we go,” 
said Lady Atherley, laughing. 

They turned down Waterloo Place, by the Duke of 
York’s column. The steps here are steep, and it was 
growing dark. Lady Atherley took Ronald’s arm, 
and Maud took her other hand. 

As they walked under the trees in the Mall, which 
was alrnost deserted, Maud said, 

“ This reminds me of Paris.” 

“Oh, Paris doux sejour, 

Du printemps et des amours,” 

sang Ronald. 

“ How I love it,” said Lady Atherley, “ with its 
delicious shady walks in the Bois ; its gay restaurants ; 
and its cafh chant ant 

Ronald, who had been in Paris the year before, and 
who was an excellent mimic, began to sing some of 
Libert’s comic songs in a low voice, but with a capital 
imitation of that artiste’s manner in “ La femme 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


150 

aPapa*' vais z'aux z'eaux z'avec Zazap* and others. 
The two ladies were enchanted. 

“ I suppose the comic songs here are not nearly so 
amusing,” said Lady Atherley. 

“ I don’t dare for them much,** said Ronald, “ but 
have you never heard any ? ” 

Never. Let us go and hear some now ; wouldn’t it 
be fun ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, it would be pure,” chimed in Miss Lang- 
more, with her favourite expression. 

“lam afraid not absolutely so,” said Ronald, “ and 
you must not be disappointed if it is not great fun, but 
we can go to the ‘ Canterbury.* ** 

They had reached the end of the Mall. There was 
no cab to be seen but only hansoms. 

“ Never mind,” said Lady Atherley, “let 7is take a 
hansom. Maud can sit on my knee, for if we wait we 
may lose something good.” 

They got into a hansom and drove off. At first 
Maud sat on Lady Atherley’s knees, but after a little 
demurring she accepted a seat partly on Ronald’s and 
partly on Constance’s. 

Behind her back the two lovers were whispering to 
each other, their faces very close together, so that 
Maud might not hear. The cab jolted so much that 
Ronald had to pass his arm round Constance’s waist 
to keep them both steady, while he reminded her of 
another drive they had taken together some two or 
three months before ; and even then he could not keep 
his hand from touching hers. 

Once Maud looked round, but she was a discreet girl, 
and turned her head back so quickly that she saw nothing. 

On arriving at the Canterbury Theatre, as the 
manager called it (not liking the term “ Music Hall ’* 
any longer since the grand spectacle “ Plevna ’* 
attracted a more fashionable audience to his house), 
Ronald was about to take a box, but Lady Atherley 
would not allow it. 

“No,” she said, “ you must obey orders to-night, and 
do exactly as we bid you. Now, we want to see this 
place thoroughly, and we want to see the people too ; 
so you must just take us among them. We won’t go 
into n box ot stalls | ** 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


151 

Ronald complied and took them into the two shilling 
seats. The ladies were both plainly but very elegantly 
dressed, so that when they came in the people, who 
turned round at their entrance, concluded that they 
were going to pass round the back of the gallery to the 
boxes on the farther side of the hall. But when 
having passed only a short distance along they sat 
down, the people around them stared at them in 
astonishment. 

A lady’s maid near them was delighted that her 
young man had taken her into a place where they saw 
such good company. 

“ Well,” said a young draper, turning to his friend, 
“ if I got a pair of elegant gals like that to come out 
with me, I’m blowed if I wouldn’t pop my ticker to get 
’em a box.” 

The ladies, on hearing that “ popping a ticker ** 
^meant “ pawning a watch,” were immensely amused. 

But now everyone’s attention was turned to the stage. 
The habitues were greeting with hearty applause the 
entrance of Mr. Charles Lestar, the “ Immense 
Comique,” as he delighted to. call himself. He was a 
tall, rather stout, and coarse-looking man of about 
thirty-five, wearing a suit of evening dress, with an 
elaborate embroidered shirt front, large imitation 
diamond studs, patent leather boots, and a light grey 
overcoat thrown wide open! On his head he wore an 
opera hat very much on one side, and in his gloved hands 
he carried a crutch stick. 

While the orchestra played a few bars as a prelude 
to the song he was about to sing, he sauntered jauntily 
about the stage, and then stopping suddenly in the 
centre, he began ; — 

** She was such a darling girl, 

And wasn’t she fair, 

She lived with a maiden aunt 
In Hanover Square ; 

I asked her to marry me, 

For I was such spoons. 

But she’s now on her honeymoon 
With a captain of Dragoons/' 

The song consisted of a dozen verses at least, none of 
which threw any further light upon the story contained 


152 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


in the first few lines which did duty as a chorus, and 
were repeated twice at the end of each verse. Natu- 
rally the “Immense Comique” could not stand still 
and sing his song without moving, and as the want 
of variety in the sense of the words made it im- 
possible to find appropriate gestures for each line 
he displayed great ingenuity in constantly finding some- 
thing to keep the audience attentive — first he buttoned 
up his overcoat, then he took off his hat, and pressing 
it together slowly, held it first in one hand, then fanned 
himself with it and passed it on to the other, and a line 
or two later stuck it under his arm. After that he took 
off his white kid gloves and put them carefully into his 
pocket. This seemed to give him a new idea, for 
deliberately unbuttoning his overcoat again he produced 
from an inner pocket a silk handkerchief with a crimson 
border, unfolded it with great care, shook it out, 
and having wiped his mouth with it in an airy manner 
made his opera hat spring open again, and flung the 
handkerchief into it. Then, too, he made several 
points out of the singing of the chorus. The first time 
he sang it impassively, the second time with a 
lachrymose air, the third time he prefaced it with a 
“ Chorus, gentlemen.” After that he sang it as if he 
were listening attentively, and then said “Not quite 
enough spirit in it to please me.” Then the audience 
joined in more boldly and he thanked them with a bow. 
Lastly he did not sing it at all, but just started it 
and then remained silent, waving his crutch stick as a 
conductor’s baton, while the audience, who had learnt 
the air pretty correctly by this time, sang it loudly, and 
when the singer retired from the stage, the people, 
delighted with his and their own efforts, cheered 
boisterously and pronounced the song a great success. 

“ What do you think of it ? ” asked Ronald. 

“ It is rather funny,” said Lady Atherley, “ but the 
song is not witty.” 

“ But a music-hall is scarcely the place to find wit,” 
answered Ronald. 

“ Is this all ? ” asked Miss Langmore in a whisper, 
“ why I don’t see anything improper in it, and if it 
weren’t for the tobacco I shouldn’t mind taking my 
mother to see it.” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


153 


** If you want to do the thing properly you must 
have some refreshments,” said Ronald. “ What will 
"ou have ?” 

“ Oh, let us take the popular drink of the place,’* 
said Lady Atherley, laughing. “ What is it ?” 

“ Well, I suppose bottled beer and brandy and soda 
are the chief favourites.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Miss Langmore, delighted. “ Let us 
have some B. and S., only won’t it look awfully bad ?” 

“ Well, Mr. Macleod must order it for himself, and 
we will have some out of his glass,” said Lady 
Atherley. 

Ronald did as he was bid. The two ladies sipped 
out of his glass. Miss Langmore was quite happy to 
think she was doing something “ awfully fast,” and she 
offered to light a cigarette for Ronald, an offer which 
he had not the heart to refuse as he saw her mind was 
set upon it. 

Once more the “ Immense Comique ” appeared on 
the stage. He had an old battered hat on his head, a 
pair of black trousers much too short for him, a green 
coat buttoned up to the chin, and no shirt collar. 

“ Why, it is the same man again,” exclaimed Lady 
Atherley, only he has put some flour on his face and 
painted his nose red.” 

“ Hang it, so it is,” chimed in Miss Langmore, who 
felt that she was really seeing something of fast life, and 
that she must adapt her language to the scene lest 
Ronald should think she was too innocent, “ I don’t 
care for him a little bit, confound him.” 

Ronald, who found little to amuse him in the perform- 
ance, smiled at the little farce Miss Langmore was 
acting for his benefit ; meanwhile, Charlie Lestar was 
telling, in a doleful ballad, of the family afflictions 
which were falling upon him. 

“ Whatever am I to do ? 

It’s ‘ run for the doctor, do.' 

First it’s a daughter, then it’s a son, 

Sometimes, alas ! it’s more than one, 

I begin to believe, ’pon my word, now, I do, 

My wife’s the old woman who lived in a shoe.’* 

“ I don’t like this song,” said Lady Atherley; “ it is 
stupid.’* 


154 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


“ Yes,” said Ronald. “ Shall we go ^ 

Oh, no, but let us talk instead of listening to it.” 

Ronald was only too glad, so he conversed with 
her in a low tone, while Maud Langmore listened 
attentively to the sOng. He had but one topic now — 
his love for her, his admiration, his hopes and fears for 
the future —and every now and then as he spoke to her 
with the unwonted eloquence born of his passion for 
her, the chorus would break in — Whatever am I to 
do ? ” 

To anyone less thoroughly in earnest than he, this 
incongruity between his surroundings and conversation 
would have been either ludicrous or painful ; probably 
the scene would have forced itself upon him had not 
his heart and brain been so full of “ her” that there was 
no room for external things to make any impression 
upon him. All he felt was that she” was beside him, 
and that he loved her. 

“ Well, this is too absurd,” broke in Miss Langmore, 
suddenly. ** I believe there is only one performer in 
this place. Here’s the ‘Immense Comique* back 
again. Do look, Mr. Macleod.” 

“ Oh, yes ; that is always so. Each popular artiste 
sings three songs in succession, and in this way, when 
they have done with one music-hall, they can drive off 
and sing at another.” 

This time Charlie Lestar was dressed as a country- 
man. He sang a song in which he praised the chief 
acts of the late Government, but each verse ended up 
with — 

And we’ll now give the other poor beggars a turn.” 

Lady Atherley was listening attentively. 

“ That’s very good,” she said, “ but" I wonder the 
people like it. I should say it was almost a Conserva- 
tive song.” 

“ Well, you see,” explained Ronald, “it is very un- 
decided. The singer is feeling the pulse of the public. 
These fellows are very quick at seeing the faults of a 
Government, and I have no doubt that, if this song 
lasts a little longer, it will become more Conservative 
still. The Government have not had time to make 
many blunders yet, but you will notice that those 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


155 


which they have perpetrated are touched upon. I believe 
that these songs are a pretty sure indication of the ten- 
dency of public opinion among the lower classes in 
London.” 

The next part of the performance consisted of 
a ballet, with which Miss Langmore was much 
pleased ; but the two lovers were too much taken 
up with each other to see much of it. Miss Lang- 
more had caught a momentary glimpse of two 
gentlemen, very correctly dressed in black coats 
and white ties, talking to some of the coryphees behind 
the wings, and she felt that she was really seeing life, 
and she was consequently happy for the rest of the 
evening. The ballet over. Lady Atherley proposed to go, 
and Ronald found the drive in the hansom from the 
Canterbury to Victoria Square all too short. Lady 
Atherley, sorry that another pleasant evening was over, 
maliciously observed to Ronald that it was a pity Miss 
Langmore had not been with them during that other 
drive from the “ Holborn,” as it was evident that her 
presence kept him in order. Taking this as a challenge, 
Ronald passed his arm round her, and — keeping his eyes 
the while fixed on Miss Langmore — kissed her softly. But 
Maud was determined not to see anything, and kept her 
face turned towards the horse, not even turning round 
when either of the lovers made a remark to her, so 
that Ronald, growing bolder, kissed Ida again and 
again. 

Here we are,” exclaimed Maud, suddenly, as the 
cab turned into Victoria Square, while Ronald and 
Ida, who could not believe they had yet crossed 
Westminster Bridge, hastily drew away from one 
another. 

“ May I come in for a minute?” asked Ronald, as 
Maud sprang out on the pavement. 

Not to-night,” answered Lady Atherley, as she 
pressed his hand. “ It would not do, don’t you under- 
sta^ d?” 

Poor Ronald did not understand, but with a shake of 
the hand for each lady, and after many thanks from 
them for their enjoyable evening, he walked off as the 
door opened. 

“You poor dear Connie,” said Maud, as the two 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


156 

ladies went upstairs together. “ I know I was awfully 
heavy for you in the cab. I declare you are quite 
flushed. I did so wish I could have gone in another 
hansom instead of incommoding you so much ; but I 
felt it would not do,” and she smiled maliciously. 

“ Oh, I was quite comfortable, thanks ; but what did 
you think of our cicerone — frankly, did you like him ?” 

“ He has good eyes, and those French songs he sang 
made one think for a moment that one was back in 
dear old Paris again, and then, too, he made me laugh 
a good deal at dinner, but he has one immense fault.” 

“ And what is that ? ” 

** He never looked at poor me. I tried to catch 
those large liquid eyes of his once or twice, but as you 
always sat between us I noticed that his glances never 
got beyond you. It must be delicious to have a man 
so awfully in love with you, only I own I should be a 
little frightened of him if he looked at me as he does at 
you.” 

“ What nonsense, child, he likes me very well as a 
friend, but — ” 

“ I think if we translated that word ‘ friend ’ into 
French it would end in a-n-t instead of in i. But 
seriously, dear, I hope you are not so fond of him as he 
is of you.” 

“ Oh, I like him very well, you know, he is very 
sympathetic and kind to me, but nothing more than 
that. He is what Captain Greville would call ‘ a good 
old sort.’ ” 

But though Maud had never turned her head in the 
cab, she knew pretty well what was going on, and as 
she undressed that night she thought to herself. 

My time will come some day; when once the magic 
ring has been placed on my finger, I too shall have 
slaves at my command. I wonder when that stupid old 
Harry will make up his mind to say the words which 
are always rising to his lips, and give me life and free- 
dom for myself, instead of watching the happiness of 
others while I play the unattractive part of ‘ Miss 
Gooseberry.’ ** 


HIS LAST PASSION4 


*57 


CHAPTER XVx. 

THE LITTLE RIFT. 

“ Come at once to Victoria Square so ran a telegram 
which was put into Ronald’s hands a few days after the 
evening at the Canterbury. What could have hap- 
pened ? Fearful some misfortune had befallen Lady* 
Atherley, he hastened to obey her summons. On 
arriving at the house where he had last seen her, he 
found a carriage waiting at the door. He was shown 
upstairs into the tiny little drawing-room, where he 
waited ten minutes before anyone came to him. Then 
Lady Atherley appeared. She wore a black cotton 
dress with white spots, a coquettish little straw hat ; 
and she was buttoning her gloves as she came in. 

“ I feared some bad news,” he said, “but you look so 
radiant that I am reassured ; but why did you send for 
me ? ” 

“ Because I am starting for Norway, and I felt I 
should like to say good-bye before I went.” And she 
put both her hands into Ronald’s. His face fell. 
Leading her to an easy chair, he sat down on one of 
the arms of it. 

“ Tell me all about it,” he said, anxiously. 

“ There is nothing to tell. Prince Niesczewski has 
invited us to go in his yacht for quite a long 
voyage. First we are to cruise about the south 
coast for a few days ‘ to get our sea legs on,’ as I 
believe they call it, then we are to go to Norway, where 
Sir Algernon will join us for awhile, and after that we 
shall sail down the Mediterranean — at least, the men of 
the party will go round by sea, but Maud Langmore 
and I are going to avoid the Bay of Biscay, and after 
taking a peep at Paris, we shall join the yacht again 
at Marseilles.” 

“ What a long time you will be away.” 

“No, not so very long. We expect to be at Venice 


HIS LAST passion. 


158 

by the ist of October, and we shall return to town 
shortly after that.” 

“ And this is only the beginning of July ! I know it 
is selfish, but I can’t help wishing you would not be 
away so long.” 

“ Oh, three months will soon pass.” 

“ For you, perhaps. You will have your darling self 
always with you, and in such company the time cannot 
seem long. But I, I shall never see you, perhaps not 
hear from you, all that time.” 

“ I will write when I can, but where can I safely 
send letters ? ” 

** To my City address ; and if you do write, always 
say where I can send you an answer, for I shall be 
dying to tell you a hundred things.” 

“I will. But tell me, did you like Maud very 
much ? ” 

“Yes, for I fancy she is a friend of yours ; and she 
was so charitable to me in the cab coming home.” 

“ Yes ; you behaved very badly. Do you know, you 
quite made me love you that night.” 

Lady Atherley’s head was close down against 
the side of the carriage. 

Do you remember telling me once that you wished 
for a fortune ?” she continued. 

“ Yes, frequently; but simply in order to treat it accord- 
ing to its deserts, to show that I have no respect for it.” 

“What extraordinary ideas !” 

“ Yes, I have often wished to be rich in order to dis- 
play the contempt I feel for money, and I can remember 
having fallen asleep two or three times with the idea of 
going to seek a wife in America,” at the same time laying 
his hand upon her own, while she gently pushed it away. 

He understood, and took his hand away immediately. 

“ You are a good, obedient boy,” she said, rising from 
her seat, “ but that wretched Maud is making us late, 
and I must hurry her. We should be on the way to the 
station by this time, as the yacht starts from Gravesend 
this afternoon. Good-bye.” 

Ronald drove to the Charing Cross Station, and had 
the satisfaction of seeing her pass with her sister, Maud, 
Prince Niesczewski, and Captain Greville. 

As he recognised the Austrian nobleman he 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


X59 


thought sadly how easy it would be for a man of his 
well-known powers of fascination to gain a woman’s 
heart during the three months he was to be on board 
the yacht with her. “ But I must not look at the black 
side of things,” he thought, as he watched the train 
steaming out of the station, “let me rather feel grateful 
for the happiness I have received at her hands, and 
trust that it is only an earnest of what is to come.” 

But had Ronald been aware of the cause of this 
yachting excursion, he would not have troubled himself 
much about the Austrian. 

A few days before this occasion. Captain Greville 
and his friend had been talking over the change in 
Lady Atherley’s manner. 

“ She hardly ever sees me now,” said Greville, 
moodily, “ and I fear your suspicions must be correct.” 

“No doubt of it, old fellow. I feel certain that some 
man has come between you, and I am almost equally 
sure that I have not seen him with her. What do you 
intend to do ? ” 

“Find out who the fellow is to begin with, and 
then ” 

“ That’s no use. You would be no happier, for you 
would either be disagreeable to him in her presence, or 
abuse his personal appearance, or upbraid her ; any of 
which courses would be a fatal mistake. No, my dear 
fellow, you must excuse my saying so, but your 
inamorata is a trifle volagSy and I fancy that you need 
not fear the possibility of anyone making a deep 
impression on her. But at the same time, as this fancy 
of hers annoys you, I should recommend you to with- 
draw her from the influence of this man, whoever he 
may be.” 

Greville agreed with his friend, and out of this con- 
versation grew the journey to Norway, which was soon 
afterwards undertaken. As Sir Algernon might refuse 
to allow his wife to go away for so long a time with 
her cousin (of whom he entertained some suspicions] 
even under the protection of her sister, Niesczewski 
undertook to form a party, and to induce Sir Algernon 
to join it later, if, as Greville supposed, his Parliament- 
ary duties would not allow him to leave at once. 

Accordingly Mrs. Huntingdon, Lady Atherley, Miss 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


i6o 

Langmore and her brother — a boy of twenty, who had 
just passed for the army, and was waiting to be ap- 
pointed to a regiment — and Captain Greville ac- 
cepted the invitation of the Prince and Princess, 
while Sir Algernon had agreed to join the party 
about a month later in Norway, where he might get 
some fishing, an amusement of which he was passion- 
ately fond. 

Two or three days before starting Greville had an 
interview with Lady Atherley, in which he had 
spoken to her of the pain which her altered manner had 
caused him. This expostulation on his part led to an 
angry scene, which, however, was followed by the 
reconciliation of the lovers, and Lady Atherley, thinking 
that she had treated him badly after the constant devo- 
tion which he had shown her, felt something like a return 
of the love of long ago as she talked over the happy 
times they were to have together on the yacht. But 
then, again, the evening at the “ Criterion” with Ronald 
had deepened the impression which he had made upon 
her, so that when the moment came to sail she was 
almost sorry to go. 

But though Ronald was rather sad as he walked 
away from the Charing Cross Station, thinking how long 
Ida’s absence must seem to him, yet her promise that 
she would write, and the hope that at last he had secured 
some place in her heart, prevented him from feeling 
despondent. 

A week had passed, and Ronald was beginning 
to wonder whether she would really keep her promise, 
when a letter from her was brought to him. It 
told him of a collision which had taken place between 
Prince Niesczewski’s yacht and another. Ronald’s 
first thought was one of sickening fear at the idea that 
she had been in danger, but this was soon turned to 
thankfulness for her preservation. 

The letter went on to say that the damage done was 
slight, but that it would take some three days or so to 
repair, and that in the meantime Ida and Mrs. 
Huntingdon would remain at the little village of 
Lowcliffe, but that the remainder of the party had gone 
back to town for a couple of days. 

Ronald’s joy knew no bounds. It was true her letter 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


l6l 


did not say “ come,” but surely he could not be wrong 
in interpreting it to mean that. Hastening home to 
get a few necessaries, he left word for Ella, who 
happened to be out, that he was going to dine with a 
friend some way out of to^vn and might not be back 
that night. And taking the next train he arrived at 
Lowcliffe at about five o’clock. 

Recognising the necessity for caution, Ronald did 
not go at once to the address given in Lady Atherley’s 
letter, but, inquiring for the best hotel in the village, he 
learnt that there was only one, and that it was rather 
full, so that he might be unable to get a bed there. 

The Bell Vue Hotel is a quaint old-fashioned house 
looking on to the sea, and when Ronald rang the bell 
a bald-headed knock-kneed waiter shuffled along 
sleepily in his slippers to answer his inquiries as to the 
possibility of getting a room. 

The waiter thought it impossible, but when Ronald 
had called for the landlord, asked him to drink a bottle 
of wine with him, and explained that any sort of room 
would be good enough for him, the thing was managed. 

“ It’s very awkward,” said the landlord. “ This 
house is very small for the place, now that the London 
folk are beginning to come down to Lowcliffe, and I 
can’t get my alterations done till next summer. Why, 
only the day before yesterday there was a party landed 
here from a yacht, and we couldn’t put ’em up, and I 
was sorry, I can tell you, for they were the right sort to 
have in a hotel ; but I had to arrange with Lawyer 
Perkins to let them have three rooms in his house, and 
then most of ’em went back to London, because there 
wasn’t room for ’em here.” 

Is it such a small house, then ? ” 

“ Oh, no ; it’s a good, tidy-sized house. Look out 
there, sir. It’s the last but one, close down into the 
sea.” 

Ronald had learnt what he wanted without asking 
a single question. So, finishing his wine and ordering 
dinner for eight o’clock, he strolled out along the 
beach. 

He did not like to go straight to the house and ask 
for Lady Atherley, as he feared he might be doing 
something which would vex her, so he thought he 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


162 

would look at the house in which she was staying, and 
try if he could get some sign from her, before asking for 
her. 

The lawyer’s house was one of a row of modern 
villas, two stories high, with a verandah running along 
a few feet below the windows of the upper rooms. It 
was so near the sea, that at high tide the garden wall 
was washed by the waves, and in stormy weather the 
spray was thrown against the windows, but the ground 
rose so suddenly that there was no chance of the sea 
encroaching much upon the garden, though the water 
had once destroyed a portion of the massive stone wall. 
It was now low tide, and Ronald was able to pass by 
the house dry-footed. 

He looked in at the windows, but could see 
nothing to help him to a decision on the delicate 
question as to whether he might safely ask for 
Ida. He therefore determined to try the other 
side of the house, but he had no sooner reached 
the long narrow street on the other side which con- 
stitutes the village of Lowcliffe, than he felt his 
heart beat wildly as he caught sight of a figure, too far 
off to be recognisable by the eye, but which an unerring 
instinct told him was the woman he loved. 

In the first moment of their meeting Ida was pleased 
that, he should have so promptly answered her letter 
by coming in person, but the next moment she told 
him how inconvenient it was. 

“ Why did you come when I did not tell you to ?” 
she asked. 

“ Because I knew there was a chance of seeing you, 
and I could not stay away.” 

“ But my sister is here, and I don’t want her to see 
you ; she might speak about it.” 

“ Then, good bye, darling. There is no train back to 
town to-night, but I will keep close in my hotel and 
leave as early as possible to-morrow.” 

His readiness to obey her wishes softened her. 

“ Well, it is rather a pity you came, but since 
you are here we must make the best of it,” she 
said ; ‘‘I will tell Kate I met you, and asked 
you to dine with’ us. Of course you will come, 
and you must be very careful, for I would not even 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


163 


have her suspect that you even admire me. You must 
say what you can to account for your presence in this 
little village, and remember you must leave before 
eleven.” 

Though Ronald was not quite pleased with his 
reception, still he was to dine with her, and that 
was well worth coming to LowclifFe for. But 
somehow the dinner was a failure. Mrs. Huntingdon 
was tired, and did not feel inclined to talk much, 
and the very indifferent cuisine which' they 
to put up with annoyed her. Then Ronald could 
not help feeling that Lady Atherley was particulai.y 
cold and distant in her manner, and although he tried 
to persuade himself that this coldness was due entirely 
to her desire to disarm every suspicion which might be 
entertained by her sister, yet he could not avoid the 
unpleasant thought that she would rather he had 
stayed away. The night was sultry and the sky over- 
cast, and it was evident that a storm was impending. 
Mrs. Huntingdon proposed a short walk by the sea, 
but the ladies had only just had time to put on 
their bonnets when the rain began to fall in large 
isolated drops. All three felt disappointed at losing 
their walk, and the disappointment added to that 
tension of the nerves which so many people experience 
in an atmosphere highly charged with electricity. 

The evening dragged along slowly, and for the first 
time Lady Atherley and her lover felt a tinge of 
ennui in each other’s presence. Accordingly, shortly 
after ten o’clock, Ronald said “ good-night ” A maid 
went to the door with him to show him out, and lock 
up the house after him, but just as she opened the door, 
Mrs. Huntingdon called out to her : “ Mary, come 
quickly, I have upset a flower-vase.” 

The girl immediately ran away for a duster, leaving 
Ronald standing on the threshold. Suddenly an idea 
flashed across him ; he noticed a large cupboard door 
beside him, and without realising the situation he 
slammed the front door, arud entering the cupboard he 
closed the door of it and waited. In a few minutes the 
girl returned, and he heard the bolts being fastened and 
the chain put up on the front door. After waiting about 
an hour the sounds in the house became hushed, and he 


164 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


felt satisfied that all its inmates had retired to rest. He 
had noticed out of which room Ida came when she went 
downstairs after putting her bonnet on. Creeping softly 
upstairs, he listened carefully at her door, fearful lest her 
maid might be with her, and in a few moments he was 
satisfied that Ida was alone. Opening the door suddenly 
he stepped into the room. Lady Atherley, who was 
brushing her hair, turned round sharply, and could 
scarcely repress an exclamation of fear. 

Ronald put his fingers to his lips. 

“ Take care,” he said quietly, “ you may alarm the 
house.” 

“ Let it be alarmed. What right have you to come 
into my room like this ?” 

For a moment Ronald was silent. She looked so 
lovely as she stood there, in her light-blue flannel and 
satin dressing-gown, her eyes flashing with indigna- 
tion, her rich hair waving over her shoulders, that the 
young man stood as if transfixed, not realizing the rash 
and unpardonable act that he had committed. At last 
recovering himself he said: 

“ I know that I have no right to see or speak to you; that 
everything to do with my undying devotion for you is not 
right, but miserably wrong; but — but — I cannot help it.” 

“ Speak not of undying devotion. How you have 
come in, I know not; but this I know, that it is cowardly 
of you to come like a thief, yes, like a thief in the night, 
and rob me of my reputation. You cannot leave the 
house without alarming some one, and my name will be 
compromised by you. Have you bribed a servant in 
order to effect an entrance here ?” 

“ Not a soul knows of my presence in this house, 
except yourself.” 

He spoke with an accent of suffering, sadness, and 
patience. His low spirits weighed her down. They felt 
like a heavy weight on her bosom, which her breathing 
could scarcely remove. A feeling of discomfort, a vague 
feeling of pain, spread itself all through her being and 
enervated her, took from her all her vital energy, destroyed 
in her every wish to move, and kept her crushed, bowed 
down, and without strength to rise and shake it off. 

At last she seemed to take pity on him and said, more 
calmly and as if resigned to the inevitable: 

But you will never be able to leave the house un- 


HIS LAST PASSION. 165 

noticed. The doors are locked, and every bolt is rusty 
and creaks violently on the slightest movement.” 

“ I have thought of that. I can go by this window. 
The verandah is only a few feet below it, so that 1 can 
step on to it, slide down one of the pillars, pass down 
the garden, and so on to the sea shore. The ni^it is 
dark as pitch, and no one can see me.” 

“ You might fall and be hurt.” 

“ There is no danger of that ; besides, a small risk 
like that is worth running for the sake of being with you 
alone.” 

“ Yes ; but if you were so hurt that you could not 
get away without assistance, how would things look 
then ?” 

Ronald felt disappointed. He imagined that her 
solicitude had been all on his account ; now he found 
that it was on her own. 

“ I will be very careful,” he said. 

A footstep was heard in the passage. 

“ Good God I my sister. I am lost ! ” exclaimed 
Lady Atherley. 

“ Keep the door for half a minute,” he whispered, 
“ and all will be well.” 

The window was wide open, and he swung himself 
out on to the verandah. The rain had made the 
ironwork upon it very slippery ; he lost his footing and 
fell to the ground. Ida heard the thud of his body as 
she opened her door, but the noise of the waves and 
the howling of the wind prevented the sound reaching 
Mrs. Huntingdon’s ears. 

“ How white you look, Connie,” she said. “ Are you 
feeling ill ?” 

“ Oh, it is nothing but the storm, I think. It has 
given me a headache, and I want to go to sleep.” 

Mrs. Huntingdon, who had come for a talk, only 
waited a very few minutes and then retired to her 
room. As soon as she was gone Ida rushed to the 
window, half fearing that she would see her lover lying 
on the ground, but when her eyes were sufficiently 
accustomed to the darkness she saw that he was gone. 

The height which Ronald had fallen was not above 
twelve or fifteen feet. Though he was rather shaken 
he was not seriously hurt, and he fully realized the 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


1 66 

necessity of immediately getting away. Creeping 
stealthily down the garden he let himself drop over the 
wall at the end. To his surprise he found himself in about 
two feet of water, for the tide was high, and the storm had 
driven the water rather far in. In the confusion caused 
by his fall, he had turned to the right instead of to the 
left on dropping from the garden wall, so that it seemed 
to him that he would never come to the end of the wall. 
Besides this, the waves made it extremely difficult for 
him to walk, and caused him to stumble against the 
masonry. He therefore moved a few feet out from it, 
and suddenly plunged over a small ledge of shingle into 
deep water. 

It was some minutes before he regained sufficient 
presence of mind to try and gain the beach, but on 
turning towards the shore he found that he was con- 
siderably farther out than he supposed. The fact was 
that the tide was now running out, and the wind having 
suddenly dropped, he had been carried out some little 
distance. Pulling himself together, he ‘ ‘ trod water ’ ’ for 
a short time while he took a look at the situation. 
There was now a break in the clouds, and consequently 
there was just light enough for him to discover the 
mistake he had made in the direction he had taken at 
first starting. 

He struck out for the shore, but after swimming for 
about ten minutes he was surprised to find that he 
had scarcely advanced as many yards towards the 
beach, although the houses were now at some short 
distance on his right. 

“ This is getting serious,” thought Ronald, as he 
recognised the fact that he was tired, and that his 
clothes were impeding him sadly, “ but I must make an 
effort for it,” and he struck out vigorously again. 

The sea was running pretty high, and as he rose to 
the top of one of the waves he saw a large black-looking 
object looming through the darkness at a short distance 
from him. 

With a few steady strokes he reached it, and was 
glad to find that it was the jetty. Feeling very much 
exhausted, he seized one of the beams, intending to rest 
before climbing on to it ; but the waves were so power- 
ful that he found it would be unwise to delay reaching 


HIS LAST PASSION. 167 

the shore. He therefore clambered up the beams and 
soon stood upon the top. 

His fall in the garden and the exertion he had under- 
gone caused his limbs to tremble so violently that he 
felt unable to walk, and he was constrained to lie down 
and rest. Though he did not lose consciousness alto- 
gether, it was nearly half an hour before he could 
regain his feet. The night was warm, and the wind 
had completely fallen ; but still Ronald felt cold and 
shaky, and it was with no little difficulty that he made 
his way to the hotel. 

The old waiter, who had been ordered to sit up for 
him and had fallen asleep in a chair, was roused with 
some difficulty, and in his somnolent condition he 
easily accepted Ronald’s explanation that he had lost 
his way and got drenched in the storm. 

After a restless night Ronald rose early. He felt 
feverish, and the thought of his last night’s adventure 
did not tend to calm his excited nerves. Thinking 
that Ida might be somewhat anxious about him, he 
wrote her an amusing account of his adventure, sup- 
pressing anything serious in it, and dwelling on its 
ludicrous aspect. In conclusion, he told her that he 
would return to town by the twelve o’clock train, and 
that he would not call to see her unless she sent him 
word to come. 

Lady Atherley was dressing when the letter came, 
and seeing that it was rather long she put it aside 
unread until she was ready for breakfast. Then as 
she went into the dining-room she saw the boy who 
had brought it waiting in the passage. 

“ What do you want ? ” she asked. 

“ Please m’m, I was told to wait for an answer to t* 
letter I brot.” 

“ I can’t send one now,” she said, turning to the 
maid who was bringing in the coffee, “ or my breakfast 
will get cold.” 

The boy ran back to the hotel and repeated her 
remark to Ronald, who had been anxiously awaiting 
his return. The message stung him sorely — an hour 
later he wrote again thus — 

“ If you have finished breakfast you may be able tr 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


1 68 

find time to let me know if I may come and see you 
before I start. I don’t ask for a letter, but just take 
the enclosed pencil and write ‘ yes ’ or ‘ no ’ upon this 
envelope and send it back.” 

This time she answered : — 

“ Good-bye, chtv ami. Sorry you could only stay so 
short a time. I expect we shall leave to-morrow. I 
will try and find time to send you a letter now and then 
during our cruise, but you know I hate writing.” 

With a heavy heart Ronald returned to town. 

He had scarcely reached his office when Fausterley 
came in. 

“ What has happened to you ? you look as white as 
a sheet.” 

“lam tired, I had a bad night last night, and I have 
just come up from Lo'wcliffe by a horribly slow train.” 

“ I congratulate you,” said Fausterley, after hearing 
the object of Ronald’s trip to the sea-side, “ for with 
such an appearance as you present to-day, I am sure 
you must be completely happy.” 

“You are completely wrong.” 

“ What nonsense — why should you make a mystery 
with me ? ” 

“ I make no mystery ” — and Ronald told his story. 

“ Poor old fellow,” said Fausterley, after hearing the 
account of his friend’s troubles ; “ I’ll tell you what it 
is, the woman is a brute, and you must give her up. 
Forgive my plain speaking,” he continued, for he saw 
that Macleod resented the epithet he had applied to 
Lady Atherley; “it is better you should look the 
thing straight in the face. The woman does not love 
you ; if she did, sh? could not treat you so.’ 

“ My reason teds me you are right,” answered 
Ronald, dejectedly; “and why should she love me, 
because I have adored and treated her chivalrously ? 
With some women that might suffice, but I have yet to 
learn how to win her.” 

“Yes; and is she worth the trouble? You have 
two courses open to you : either you can give her 
up and never see her again, and if you listen to 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


169 


your reason that is the course you will adopt, or if this 
miserable passion of yours is too strong for you, as I 
fear it is, you must be harsh and apparently indifferent 
to her. It has often been said that the best way to 
secure the affection of either a woman or a dog is to use 
a stick freely, and I believe that, figuratively speaking 
(perhaps in some ranks of life literally), this is true of 
some women. From what you tell me of Lady Atherley, 
I can fancy she is one of those women — at least you can 
try harshness with her, for you cannot be worse off than 
you are present, and it may lead to the results you 
desire.” 

“ But I could not do it. I have always been so 
gentle and tender towards her that I could not alter 
my behaviour. Oh, Fausterley, you don’t know how I 
love her. At this moment, when I am smarting from 
the last blow she has inflicted upon me — when I feel 
heartsore and life-sick — there is no sacrifice which she 
could demand of me in vain, though I believe that her 
only reason for leading me on to love her so madly 
has been a mere caprice — a woman’s love of dominion 
— a despicable feeling of selfish vanity if you will, 
which causes her to trample upon me for the mere 
satisfaction which this knowledge of her power brings 
to her self-love. Yet, if she asked me to risk my life, 
nay; more, my honour, for her, I should cheerfully 
consent.” 

“ I say, old chap, I had no idea you were as bad as 
this. You look awfully iU, too. Come and have a 
liquor, and it will pull you together.” 

“No, thanks, a liquor won’t help me ; besides, I 
have lots of work to get through. This cursed passion 
of mine has made me but an indifferent man of business 
lately, and I am quite ashamed when I think how good 
my partners have been to me, and how I have shirked 
my duty. But I mean to stick to it now. She will 
leave England in a day or two, I suppose, and while 
she is away I shall work hard and try to keep her out 
of my thoughts.” 

And Ronald really carried out this intention. Day 
after day he turned over his letters with a trembling 
hand, and day after day he experienced the same 
disappointment. Then he would sit down to his desk 


170 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


and work steadily for hours. One day Mr. Thompson 
spoke to him about his zeal and energy. 

“ I am so glad to think that you are getting 
over the disappointment of your defeat,” he said, kindly. 
“ I had begun to fear that Mr. Pilsener had not only 
deprived the House of Commons of an ardent Conser- 
vative, but that he had also succeeded in injuring our 
business by robbing you of all your energy, but I am 
happy to see that whatever loss he may have caused to 
the country you are determined that we shall not suffer.” 

At last, one morning, when he had quite given up all 
hope of hearing from Ida, and when he had led himself 
to believe that he would manfully strive to subdue his 
unworthy passion for her, a letter in her well-known 
handwriting was handed to him. As his eyes fell upon 
it he felt as though he had experienced an electric 
shock. The envelope proved to be gummed down along 
its whole length ; and while Ronald’s trembling hands 
strove ineffectually to open it, his heart beat so 
violently that he felt quite faint, and he almost wished 
she had not written to him. What did the letter 
contain ? W as it life or death ? At last he tore it 
open clumsily, so that the envelope was reduced to 
shapeless fragments, and its contents all crumpled. 
But the letter was kind. It began with a plausible 
excuse for not writing - 

“You won’t be angry with me, will you, now? for 
I have been out of humanity’s reach so long that it was 
difficult to write ; and then the weather has been rather 
rough, and more than all this, I felt that I did not like 
to write until I could tell you where to direct an 
answer. Even now I can’t tell you wffiere to write, so 
that you see I am really very good to write when I 
know I can’t hear from you in return.” 

Then she spoke of their last meeting. She knew he 
would think she had been unkind about it, but it was 
not that she was unfeeling, but with her sister there — 
she was sure his tact would enable him to understand. 

Ronald was radiant, he hastened off at once to 
Fausterley, and before giving him time to ask any 
questions he put the letter into his hand. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


I7I 

** Read that,” he cried, joyfully, “ you must own you 
have wronged her, and that she is not so heartless as 
you thought.” 

Yes,” said Fausterley, when he had read it, “ that is 
a very nice letter, and there is more feeling in it 
than I should have given her credit for, and I am 
awfully glad, for your sake, for either she must care 
for you, or else she is sick of being cooped up in the 
yacht with the same people for three weeks, and is 
only writing as a sort of distraction.” 

“ I shall accept the first hypothesis ; it is the more 
agreeable of the two.” 

“ Yes, and I think it is, on the whole, the more 
likely.” 

“ Thanks. Come and drink her health.” 

In a moment all Ronald’s good resolutions about not 
seeing her again were gone, he felt that he was 
more completely her slave than ever, and he longed to 
be able to write and tell her how unjustly he had 
judged her. Which of Fausterley’s hypotheses was the 
true one ? Lady Atherley could not have told if she 
had been asked. It was certain that she had not 
thought about Ronald at all during the first few 
days of her cruise, but then the Prince had been 
so amusing, and she had had so much to quarrel 
and make friends about with Captain Greville ; 
and on the other hand, after the novelty of her 
situation had worn off, she had thought of 
Ronald very kindly. She had taken his first letter 
written at Loweliffe with her, and when she re-read it 
and recognised, in spite of the light badinage of its 
tone, the danger in which he had been, two tears stood 
in her eyes ready to fall upon the paper ; and when she 
remembered how fondly he loved her, and how 
passionately he had told her so, the tears rolled silently 
down her cheeks, and she felt that she must write to 
him and make some amends for her past conduct. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


iy2 


CHAPTER XVII. 

MY heart’s in the HIGHLANDS A-CHASING THE DEERt 

It was now September. Ronald, whose pride had been 
deeply wounded by the coldness which Ida had shown 
him at Lowcliffe, had worked hard and steadily ever 
since his return from that ill-starred visit ; and what 
with the distraction which his business afforded him, 
and the hope which he had gathered from two or 
three kind letters he had received from her since she 
was in Norway, the future smiled for him once more. 

Ella had started with her children for the North, and 
the pure Highland air was doing much to dispel the 
unhealthy atmosphere which had begun to surround 
her friendship for Fausterley. Ronald, fond as he was 
of the grouse, had waited till he could enjoy some 
more varied shooting ; but as soon as “ the little 
brown birds ” might lawfully be slaughtered, he too had 
gone to the far North. 

It was a glorious morning. Ronald and his brother, 
with whom he was staying, had been asked over for a 
day’s shooting by a rich American who had hired a 
large tract of country at an almost fabulous price, but 
who was rather a novice in all matters connected with 
sport. As soon as full justice had been done to one of 
those breakfasts which are never met with out of the 
“ land o’ cakes ” the servants announced that the dog- 
cart was ready at the door. 

“ Why, you are not going out shooting in those 
things ? ” said Ian Macleod, noticing that Ronald had 
on a very neat pair of shoes. 

“ No ; of course not. I am going to put on my boots 
now.” 

, “ Look sharp, then, the mare won’t stand, and here’s 
Murray dying to be off. Why couldn’t you eat your 
breakfast with your boots on ? I should think they 
were quite as comfortable as those dancing pumps.” 


HIS LAST PASSION. I73 

Yes, but I knew Edith would be down to breakfast, 
and ” 

“ Good Lord 1 how living in London spoils a man ; 
but don’t stand talking about it any longer, or Murray 
will be off without you.” 

“I’m not quite so bad as all that, although I haven’t 
fired a shot for three years, and therefore I shan’t be 
sorry to blaze away to-day,” said Captain Murray, 
another of Ian Macleod’s guests. 

Ronald saw that he was causing some impatience, 
and hurried from the room ; he had not been in his 
room two minutes, when his brother came up to him 
with a letter. 

“ Now, then, don’t bother about reading this now,” 
said he, “ you will have time enough for it during the 
drive.” 

It was a letter from Ida. How could Ronald put it 
aside, even for a moment ? 

“ Just see if my gun is in the trap, Ian, and I’ll be 
down before you can get the reins in your hands.” 

The elder brother left the room, and Ronald instantly 
locked the door upon him. Then tearing open the 
envelope, he glanced through the letter rapidly, skip- 
ping half the words. He saw enough to know that the 
letter was very kind, and that the yachting party were 
back in town for a couple of days, to refit before going 
to the Mediterranean. “ A letter by return, to No. 55, 
will catch me, but don’t write unless you can post it 
the day you receive this.” 

How Ronald mentally cursed the shooting party, fond 
as he was of sport. He must write at all hazards. 
Taking a pen, he hastily directed an envelope to Lady 
Atherley, put a sheet of paper inside, and thrust it into 
his pocket. 

“ Now, then, Ronald; we’re off,” shouted Ian, and, 
cracking his whip, he drove the dog-cart round the 
grass-plat in front of the door. 

Hearing the grinding of the wheels upon the gravel, 
Ronald thought his brother’s patience was really 
exhausted, so, seizing his boots and gaiters, he sprang 
downstairs four steps at a time, rushed across the 
grass-plat in his stockings, and jumped into the trap. 

“ He’s a long time getting awav at the start, but he 


174 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


comes in well at the finish,” said Ian. **By Jove,' 
Ronald, when you were turned out for Sandborough 
the House lost one of its most active members.” 

“ You don’t know that it has lost my services yet ; 
haven’t you heard that the party talks of presenting a 
petition against Mr. Pilsener for bribery ? As you say, 
I am a long time getting away at the start, but I may 
still come in well at the finish.” 

“ Well, I hope that if you do you will be clothed and 
in your right mind, and not in your present condition,” 
and the three men laughed heartily as Ronald struggled 
with his boots and gaiters at the imminent risk of being 
jolted out of the cart, so easy is it to laugh on a fine 
September morning in the Highlands. 

The sun was shining brightly through the trees, 
which formed an overhanging canopy over the road, 
gilding with a richer gold the pale yellow of those 
leaves which were already beginning to turn, and 
lighting up the heather with its myriad gems of 
sparkling dew. The mountain mists in shadowy 
wreaths were climbing slowly to the summits of the 
neighbouring hills. Now the road lay beside the 
rushing burn, where the speckled trout basked in the 
clear pools, or darting forward on rapid fin leapt the 
low falls clear out of the water. Farther on, as the 
road crossed higher ground, the trees disappeared, and 
the purple heather, trembling beneath the passing 
breeze, assumed a thousand varying tints. 

Now some mountain hare, startled by the clattering 
hoofs of the horse, would rise suddenly from her form, 
and gliding stealthily along, with her ears well back 
upon her shoulders, continued her flight until the guns 
were well out of distance, and then squatted down for a 
moment before she passed out of sight over the brow of 
the hill. Again, some wise old grouse, gaining timely 
warning from the laughter of the sportsmen, would 
perch upon a moss-grown boulder, and from his watch- 
tower carefully calculated at what moment it would be 
safest to fly off with that derisive “ kauk-kaw, kaw-rauk, 
kok-kok,” so exasperating to the deer-stalker. 

“You seem to have plenty of birds this year,” said 
Captain Murray, as he followed one of them wistfully 
with his eyes. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


175 


“Yes, I am very lucky. The birds are rather wild, 
but there are plenty of them about here, though I hear 
very bad accounts of them from the country south of 
Inverness. But we must come and make a nearer 
acquaintance with some of these fellows to-morrow — 
that is, if Ronald can get his boots on after to-day’s walk." 

“ All right, you may chaff me if you like, but wait till 
I get on the heather to-morrow and I’ll show you 
whether we London men can’t walk with the best of you, 
and, mind you, I shan’t show you any mercy. Ten 
o’clock a.m. till six p.m., half an hour for lunch, and no 
shirking the tops of the hills.’’ 

“ Oh, Lord! isn’t he valiant to-day? I daresay he’ll 
sing a different song when we take our ** wee drappie" 
over the smoking room fire to-night. But I say, boys," 
continued Ian, “ I want you to shoot your level best 
to-day, and show these Yankees what Highlanders 
can do." 

Now, as the road dipped sharply to a lower level the 
heather was left behind, and the air was laden with 
the scent of the larch and bog myrtle. Soon the lodge 
gates were passed, and after another mile the dogcart 
was pulled up at the door of Djeanich Castle. Some 
six or seven gentlemen were standing about the door 
enjoying their morning cigars, and congratulating each 
other on the promising aspect of the weather. At about 
twenty yards off stood the keepers and gillies, some 
holding the gentlemen’s guns, others leaning on their 
sticks and keeping the retrievers, while half a dozen 
couples of clumbers waddled about threatening to upset 
any unwary gillie who allowed them to come behind 
him, unheeded until the coupling leather was drawn 
taut across his calves. 

As the Macleods vaulted down from the dog-cart, 
a pale, short man, with the pinched-looking features, so 
common to Americans, stepped hurriedly forward to 
greet them. 

“ Ah, here you are. Major Macleod," he said, holding 
out his hand cordially, “you’re rather late, and I was 
gettin’ anxious, you bet. I was just sayin’ to Mrs. 
Boston, ‘ If the Major and his brother don’t come, this 
thing’ll be a failure, and we better just throw up the 
contract.* ** 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


176 

Major Macleod introduced his brother and his guest. 

“ Glad to see you, I’m sure, gentlemen, and if ever 
you come over to the country I’ll show you a thing or 
two. You ask in Wall Street if they’ve heard of Hiram 
P. Boston, and they’ll bet you a fifty dollar note to a 
red cent that I won’t let you go away dissatisfied. 
But what’s the good o’ talkin’ ? You come, that’s all. 
And now,” he continued, raising his voice, and taking 
a large decanter of whisky from a small iron table 
beside the door, “ who’s for a liquor before we start ? ” 

It was agreed that Major Macleod should take 
command of the party. Ronald should take the other 
end of the line, and the head keeper, walking in the 
centre, would endeavour to keep the guns in their 
places. The sportsmen now started at a leisurely pace 
down the avenue, followed by the keepers and beaters. 
Turning off soon by a little path to the right, they 
crossed a grass field and passed through a gate into a 
field of turnips. Here the guns were loaded and 
handed to their owners. 

“ Can anyone speak Dutch ? ” asked Mr. Boston. 
There was a pause. 

“ Well, that’s unlucky,” he continued, “ because 
Herr von Steudel has never seen a thing of this sort 
before, and I hoped some one would be able to kinder 
give him a hint now and again.” 

“ I can speak German,”’ said Ronald, “and I might 
be able to make him understand with that.” 

“ Why, darned if that ain’t the same thing. We 
always call it Dutch in the States. 

Herr von Steudel was accordingly handed over to 
Ronald, and the line spread out along the edge of the 
field, a beater and a gun alternately. As our hero 
stood for a moment, waiting the signal to advance, he 
felt that his cup of happiness was full. That glorious 
crispness of the atmosphere which makes the mere 
consciousness of life a joy — the pleasurable expectation 
which even the oldest sportsman must feel the first 
morning that he takes his weapon into his hands — the 
knowledge that he had in his pocket a charming letter 
from Ida, and the now almost certain hope that he 
should one day win her — all combined to fill his so^ 
with gladness unspeakable. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


177 


Major Macleod’s whistle sounded. 

“ Forwards,” shouted Ronald, and the line advanced. 

Soon a rabbit darted between him and Herr von 
Steudel and reached a burrow before the latter could 
fire. 

“ Ach, what an unlucky beast to run that way 
instead of forwards,” exclaimed the German, a very 
tall, sallow-faced man, with sandy hair, and wild blue 
eyes beaming through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles ; 
who had arrayed himself in a black velvet hunting cap, 
a Norfolk jacket with checks the size of one’s hand 
upon it, buck-skin breeches, and Hessian boots. 

Shots were heard at the other end of the line. 

“Never mind,” said Ronald, “you will soon have 
another chance. Look, here comes a hare down to- 
wards us ! ” 

Von Steudel raised his gun, but just before he got it 
to his shoulder his neighbour fired, and the hare rolled 
over like a ball. This did not prevent the German 
firing both his barrels at it. 

“ Did I hit it ? ” he asked. 

“ I think Mr. Hall had killed it before you fired.” 

“ Oh, no ! I assure you he still kicked.” 

“ Well, you have stopped that,” said Ronald, smiling, 
“ then I Will mark it in my book ; ” and he took out a 
pocket-book and wrote down “ killed, i hare.” At 
first Ronald was very careful not to fire at anything, 
when he thought his neighbour had a fair chance, but 
he soon found oilt that the result of this forbearance 
was likely to lessen the weight of the bag considerably. 
Besides, he soon noticed that the other men were not 
by any means inclined to emulate his example, for if 
anything got up in front of one of them, the guns on 
both sides were sure to be discharged at it, and, 
sometimes, as the gentlemen got more excited, they 
would fire at a covey of partridges even at a distance 
of 1 50 to 200 yards. 

Von Steudel, who had not succeeded in shooting 
anything except the dead hare, was getting rather 
dispirited, when just as the party was crossing a 
narrow belt of trees between two fields whir-r-r-r rose 
a cock pheasant from under his feet. 

“ Warr faysan,” shouted the beaters. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


178 

Von Steudel was so startled by the sound of the 
bird’s wings that he fired his gun without getting it up 
to his shoulder. The pheasant, which had scarcely 
flown ten yards, fell to the ground, while a shower of 
feathers fluttered down in the German’s face. 

“An eagle,” he cried, “I’ve shot an eagle,” and 
dropping his gun, rushed forward and picked up his 
prize. 

Holding it aloft, he laughed aloud with delight. “Oh, 
my friend,” he said, seizing Ronald’s hand, “have you 
seen what a quick shot — he is quite dead, and what a 
beautiful bird. I thought he was an eagle, but I must 
have him stuffed if I can find his head.” 

Ronald could not help laughing, as he explained that 
it was contrary to law to shoot pheasants in September, 
but Von Steudel was so pleased with his success that 
he persisted in treating Ronald’s assurance as a piece 
of genial Scotch humour, and from this moment he 
became so exceedingly eager that he was constantly 
eight or ten yards in front of the rest of the line, and 
Ronald had continually to tell him that he would be 
shot. 

The beat now lay through a rough piece of land, 
covered with whins and abounding in rabbits. The 
shooting became very brisk, and the excitement of the 
sportsmen spread to the beaters. Major Macleod was 
shooting very steadily, seldom missing anything. 

“ Mark, raabit ; mark, raabit,” shouted a gillie to 
him, excitedly ; but, as the rabbit was close to the 
gillie’s legs, Ian did not fire. 

“Shoot, mon, shoot; och, why did ye no shoot?” 
yelled the man. 

“ Because I’m not shooting gillies to-day, and I 
couldn’t have hit it without giving you a pellet or two.” 

“ Och, there’s no fear of me,” answered the gillie, 
who, in the excitement of the moment, would not have 
shrunk from the chance of getting a pellet or two in his 
leg if he could only get a heavier bag than the man 
next him. 

From the centre of the line came the cry, 

“ Mark hare gone back.” 

At this moment Von Steudel, tired of hearing 
Ronald’s constant warnings to keep back, had dropped 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


179 


a yard or two behind. A Mr. Carmine, son of the 
popular preacher, turned round suddenly and fired at 
the hare. 

“ Mein Gott, mein Gott,” yelled the German, dropping 
his gun and flinging his arms wildly in the air — “ I’m 
shotten, shotten, mein Gott! ” and suddenly he fell to 
the ground. 

“ What the do you get in the way for, then? ” 

shouted Mr. Carmine, rushing forward, his face white 
with terror, though he retained enough presence of 
mind to commence abusing his victim with the idea 
that he might lead the unfortunate man to suppose 
that the fault was entirely his own. 

Ronald was at Von Steudel’s side in a moment, and 
he soon found that the damage he had suffered was not 
great. One shot had passed into his left hand. 
Another had entered his leg, but it was visible close 
under the skin, and though two or three had struck his 
boots, they had not pei etrated the leather. A good 
draught of the “wine of the country” restored Von 
Steudel’s spirits, and he declared his intention of going 
on after lunch ; but Mr. Carmine was so scared that it 
was with difiiculty that Mr. Boston persuaded him to 
come on and have lunch with them, instead of 
returning at once to the castle. 

.Mr. Boston, who was anxious that he should be 
as well esteemed in the Highlands as in Wall 
Street, had prepared a gorgeous luncheon ; a spot 
had been chosen in a small wood near where the 
accident had happened. Here some planks had been 
laid across tressles and covered with a clean cloth. 
Portable ovens and tubs of iced champagne had been 
sent out, and under the superintendence of a cA^/picked 
up in “ Paree,” a meal was set forth which would 
not have disgraced a London table in the height of 
the season. While the rest of the party were hastening 
to do justice to the good things of their host, Ronald 
contrived to slip away, and having read his letter again 
and again, he repeated each phrase, dwelling on those 
words which seemed most like promises of happiness, 
till he knew them by heart. Then he sat down and 
wrote in pencil an answer. His soul was so full of 
gladness and love, that he wrote words so passionate 


i8o 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


that as he read them over again before closing the en- 
velope, his pulses beat to a quicker measure. 

Then he took her letter, and reading it for the 
last time he murmured, “ Oh, my darling, how I 
thank you for this ; ” lighting a match, he set fire to the 
paper, taking a longing, lingering look at each word as 
it was consumed. Only the signature he kept, that 
name of Ida, by which he called her. That name which 
she kept for him alone was treasured up a little longer 
until at night before changing his dress for dinner, he 
should print one long last kiss upon it, and then commit 
it also to the flames. 

Then he called one of the beaters and gave him the 
letter. 

“ Take this to the post-office at once,” he said, “ and 
if you can get back again with a note from the post- 
mistress to say you caught the post, you shall have five 
shillings.” 

Ronald then joined the party at lunch. 

“ What on earth have you been up to ?” asked Ian. 
‘‘ I never saw such a chap as you are. Now just set to 
work and make up for lost time. I believe you have 
been taking off those swell gaiters of yours to wring the 
wet out of your stockings.” 

“ And we know that putting on those boots is a 
matter of no small moment with him,” said Murray. 

“I’m not going to chaff with you fellows now, I have 
something better to do — but take care. I’ve got an 
awfully cutting remark ready for you when I’ve time 
to make it.” 

“ Well, you have only ten minutes left before we 
start, so make the best of it,” said Ian, lighting a 
cigar. 

It was a curious party that Mr. Boston, with his 
large-hearted but not over-discriminating hospitality, 
had called together. In the course of his business or 
on his travels he met an immense number of people, 
and he issued invitations on the slightest provocation, 
and, as generally happens in such cases, the people who 
accepted them were scarcely as desirable as those who 
refused. 

Von Steudel, after his copious draught of whisky, 
followed by an indefinite number of glasses of champagne, 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


i8i 

had forgotten what few words of English he ever knew, 
and was therefore obliged to remain with Ronald, as 
no one else could understand him. He became 
very friendly, and told Ronald that if ever he came 
to Munich and would ask for him he should be glad 
to do the honours of that city, of whose governing body 
he was a prominent member. ' Ronald thanked him for 
his proffered hospitality, and gave him his card, hoping 
to see him in town, 

Mr. Boston, ever looking out for everyone’s comfort, 
was asking the gillies if they had had plenty. 

“ I was thinking the boys could eat some more, sir,” 
said the head keeper. 

“ All right, Farquhar, there’s an enormous pie con- 
taining half a sheep somewhere in reserve. That’ll 
satisfy them.” 

“ They got it, sir.” 

** And is it finished ? ” 

“ Indeed ’tis, sir ; it jist went down like a pill.” 

“ Wal, when I’ve time to make a contract with the 
nearest undertaker, they can have some more, but, in 
the meantime, it might be inconvenient, so off we go.” 

The party was soon once more in motion. The 
shooting had not been good before lunch, but now it 
became alarmingly wild. Even Ian Macleod, who 
was not accustomed to a heavy meal in the middle of 
the day, and who infinitely preferred a few sandwiches, 
a draught from a spring with a drop of whiskey in it, 
and a piece of cake to the sumptuous repast which had 
just been laid before him, made several misses, and 
Ronald and Murray were the only two who kept up 
anything like a fair average. 

The beat now lay close to the sea shore. Suddenly 
a roe was seen to start from a thicket some 200 yards 
ahead of the line. Two guns were fired at it. 

“ Much too far off,” shouted Ian Macleod. 
“ Reserve your fire, gentlemen, and you will get a shot 
at her yet, as she will have to pass you before she can 
get to higher ground. Let two dogs go, Farquhar.” 

A couple of retrievers, which had been trembling 
with excitement, were unleashed, and running at their 
highest speed turned the roe back on to a narrow 
tongue of whin-covered land jutting into the sea. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


182 

“ We have her,” shouted Ian. “ If four guns will 
go down and beat those whins she can’t escape. There 
is hardly room for more than that.” Captain Murray was 
told off to take a Dr. Warsol, Mr. Hall, and Mr. 
Waugh — the former a country doctor who had received 
a month’s invitation to the Highlands in return for 
some slight assistance rendered to Mr. Boston’s son, and 
the two latter fellow-passengers of that gentleman’s on 
the occasion of his last trip from America. None of 
the three had ever been in Scotland before, and they 
were in a state of great excitement, as they believed 
they were now engaged in that celebrated sport — deer 
stalking. 

While they advanced in a line stretching across the 
promontory, the remainder of the party stood in a 
group watching them. After a few minutes eight shots 
were heard in quick succession, and then the roe was 
seen running towards the extreme end of the land. 

Suddenly she stopped short and turned back upon 
her pursuers, running between Captain Murray and the 
doctor. As she advanced towards him, Murray fired 
one barrel at her, and then, dubious of the doctor’s 
presence of mind, threw himself flat on his face. It 
was well he did so, for the other three gentlemen all fired 
in his direction, and their shot went whizzing over him. 

“ She has escaped them all,” said Ian; “what an 
infernal set of duffers.” 

“ No,” said Ronald, “ I think she is hard hit ; see 
how slowly she runs, and the dogs are at her heels. 
There ; the dogs have her by the throat. It is all up 
with her.” 

“Who shot her?” asked Mr. Boston, as Murray’s 
party returned. 

“ I think I hit her with my second shot,” said Murray, 
“ but I missed the first and the last.” 

“ I hit her three times,” said the Doctor. 

“You deuced nearly hit me,” said Murray, rather 
annoyed that he had missed such easy shots. 

“I know I hit her twice if not three times,* cried 
Mr. Waugh. 

“ And I saw the shot rattle on her and turn her fur 
up each time I fired,** chimed in Mr. Hall, anxious 
to claim the prize. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


183 


A dispute seemed imminent. 

“What shot were you using, Murray?** asked 
Ronald. 

“ Number six.” 

“ Mine is Number four,” said Mr. Hall. 

“ I had an S. S. G. cartridge in the last shot I fired, 
and Number five before that,” said the Doctor. 

“ And I Number five all the time,” chimed in Mr. 
Waugh. 

“ Well, let us make a sort of sweepstakes of it ; we 
will each put a couple of sovereigns in and give one 
of the keepers a sovereign to search for the shot, and 
if it is No. 6 the stakes shall be taken by Captain 
Murray, if S. S. G., by the doctor, if No. 5 the Doctor 
and Mr. Waugh will divide the pool, and if No. 4 I 
shall claim it,” pronounced Mr. Hall. 

“ Agreed,” cried the others. 

When the under-keeper had skinned and grelloched 
the beast, “ Well,” asked Mr. Boston, “ who takes the 
pile?” 

“ The puir baste couldna run wi’ sair idders, sir. 
She was caught by the dougs, and there was na a pellat 
in her hail bawdy.” 

This report was received with a hearty laugh, in 
which the whole party joined, and at night in the 
smoking-room chaff about Ronald’s shoes was aban* 
doned for jests about the running deer* 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE BRIDE OF THE SEA. 

Ronald had not been long back in London when he 
received a letter from Von Steudel. After many thanks 
for the kindness which Ronald had shown him at Mr. 
Boston’s, and also during the two or three days which 
he had afterwards spent at Major Macleod’s, he pro- 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


184 

ceeded to ask Ronald’s advice upon a matter of 
business. 

The city of Munich required a loan of two millions 
sterling to complete some public works, and to con- 
solidate the remnants of some former loans. The 
authorities were willing to pay five per cent, interest, 
and if they could find any house to guarantee the 
placing of the whole loan, they were willing to dispose 
of it firm at 97 or 98, leaving it to the discretion of the 
guarantors to issue it at whatever price they thought 
fit. 

Ronald at once saw that this transaction would bring 
a certain gain of from £20^000 to £ so ^000 to any house 
undertaking it, for it was evident that in the present 
plethoric state of the money market the loan could be 
issued at least at par. Here was a way by which he 
could not only repay his partners for their goodness to 
him, but also clear himself of any debt due to them. 

Trembling with excitement, he took the letter into 
Mr. Thompson’s room. In a voice which it cost him a 
great effort to keep calm, he said, “ Would you read 
that, and tell me what you think of it ? ” 

Mr. Thompson took up a pair of spectacles which 
were lying on his desk, wiped them carefully, and, 
adjusting them on the end of his nose, read the letter 
attentively. 

Ronald stood aside watching his partner’s face, to 
see what effect the proposal would have upon him, but 
the old gentleman’s expression remained perfectly 
stolid. When he came to the end of the letter, he 
turned it over and read it again. Then turning to 
Ronald, and looking at him over the top of his 
spectacles, he said : “ My German is getting rather 
rusty ; just translate it to me.” 

Ronald complied. When he had finished, Mr. 
Thompson rose from his seat, pressed Ronald’s hand 
warmly, and said : 

“ Excellent ; you must start for Munich to-night, or 
some one else may step in and get the business before 
us. You had better go home and pack up. I will talk 
to Haroldson, and telegraph to Baron Steudel and tell 
him to expect you on Wednesday morning.” 

A few hours after Ronald was steaming across the 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


i8s 

Channel, resolutely keeping down the idea that the sea 
was rather rough with the thought that every plunge 
of the boat was diminishing the distance which lay 
between him and Venice, where Ida was to arrive that 
night, according to the last letter which he had received 
from her. “ And Venice is not so very far from 
Munich,” he thought, “and perhaps I might run over 
there after this business is settled and see her for one 
day.” 

At Cologne, where Ronald changed carriages, he 
entered a compartment in which a gentleman was 
sitting wrapped up in furs and apparently sleeping 
peacefully. 

As soon as the train started Ronald put his feet upon 
the opposite cushion, wrapped his legs in an oppossum 
rug and was soon deeply interested in a charming 
modern novel full of plot and passion. 

His fellow-traveller now opened his eyes, but directly 
they fell upon Ronald he closed them again with an 
involuntary start. Then opening them again slowly, he 
fixed them steadily upon him with an expression of 
such deadly hate that had Ronald turned his head he 
would hardly have been able to resume his reading with 
any degree of comfort. 

For fully five minutes the stranger glared fixedly at 
him, while his hand stole gently into his pocket and 
grasped a small revolver. Then the murderous 
expression faded from his face, and he turned in his seat. 

“ Have you any objection to my smoking ?” asked 
Ronald, who had been longing for a cigar, but had 
been unwilling to light one while his fellow traveller 
was asleep. 

“ On the contrary. I should be smoking myself if I 
had not emptied my cigar case.” 

Ronald fancied he recognised the voice, though he 
could not tell where he had heard it, and the stranger’s 
face was so much hidden by the fur travelling cap 
which he had buttoned under his chin that it was not 
easy to recognise him, 

“ Let me offer you one.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Macleod.” 

“ Ah, you know my name. You have the advantage 
of me.” 


i86 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


“ Then I will meet you on more even terms,** and, 
with a little laugh, he unbuttoned his cap, and disclosed 
the Jewish features of Mr. Pilsener. 

With the instinctive dislike which Ronald felt for 
this man, he was inclined to turn his back on him, but 
reflecting that perhaps it was the fact of their having 
been adversaries at Sandborough which had prejudiced 
him against Mr. Pilsener, he strove to overcome a 
feeling which he regarded as ungenerous and unreason- 
able. He therefore entered into conversation with 
him. After speaking upon various topics, — 

** By the way,” asked Mr. Pilsener, “ is it true that 
you and your friends are really going to present a 
petition against my return and claim the seat if 
successful ? ” 

“ Quite true ; have you not had notice of it ? ** 

“Yes, I heard something about it; how are you 
getting on ? Do you feel sanguine about it ? ” 

“ Tolerably. I have heard but little about it lately, 
as I have been away shooting in the north.” 

“ Do you know, I think it very unwise.” 

Possibly ; you are welcome to that opinion.** 

“But looking at it dispassionately, is it not a pity 
that you and I should spend a quantity of money for the 
benefit of the legal gentlemen, who are sure to make a 
handsome picking out of us, whichever way the peti- 
tion is decided ? ” 

“ It won’t cost me anything, for the leading Conser- 
vatives are determined to see me through with it, and 
they very rightly think I have spent quite enough out 
of my private purse in contesting the election for 
them.” 

“Yes, that must have cost you a good deal. I 
cannot help thinking, however, it is a great pity 
that so much more money should be spent upon 
this affair — why I expect the petition will cost 
me close on ;^io,ooo from first to last, and though I 
am sure of the seat, that is a great deal to pay for it. 
Do you know,” added the Jew, speaking slowly, and 
watching Ronald narrowly as he spoke, “ that I would 
be willing to pay £j,ooo down on the nail to cover the 
expenses of the petitioners if they would withdraw.** 
Ronald was silent. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


187 

“ £y,ooo did I say ? ” continued Mr. Pilsener, while 
his eyes seemed to plunge their eager glances into 
Ronald’s heart. “ I know you and your party must 
have spent a good deal, but I should think ;^8,ooo 
would cover it.” 

Ronald was still silent. 

“ Well, I was saying that the whole thing might cost 
me ;^io,ooo from first to last. It is better to know the 
worst at once than to have something indefinite to pay, 
and then of course, it would save a lot of trouble and 
worry. Yes, I would even give ;^io,ooo to know that 
the petition was withdrawn.” 

Ronald was turning over the leaves of his book. 

“What do you think, Mr. Macleod?” asked the Jew 
eagerly, after pausing some seconds for a reply. 

“ I think,” answered Ronald, fiercely, “ that a man 

who takes a bribe is a d , contemptible scoundrel, 

and that the man who offers one should be classed in the 
same category.” 

The expression of Mr. Pilsener’s face was not 
pleasant to be seen. 

“ Your remark seems to me to be entirely beside the 
question,” he said, with difficulty restraining his passion, 
while his hand played once more with the revolver in 
his pocket. 

“That is possible, but I have no wish to pursue 
the discussion, which is extremely uninteresting 
to me,” and Ronald leaned back in his seat, and 
commenced to read again, but it was some time before 
the delightful story he was perusing removed the 
expression of contempt which had settled on his 
features. 

Mr. Pilsener winced beneath Ronald’s words as if he 
had received a cut across the face with a horsewhip. 

When next the train stopped, he left the carriage. 
As he was getting out, he said : “lam sorry you should 
have misunderstood me, but I daresay that the fact of 
my not being an Englishman by birth leads me 
occasionally to employ terms in such a manner as to 
mislead, and I therefore think it only right to say 
that I sincerely regret having said anything to vex 
you.” 

“ Oh, it’s all right about that.” 


i88 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


“ Good-bye,’* said Pilsener, holding out his hand, 
but Ronald, who was still reading, contrived not to 
notice it. “ Good-bye,” he said, coldly. 

“ Thank goodness he’s gone,” murmured Ronald 
to himself ; “ d — — the brute ; offering to bribe me.” 

“You shall pay me for this,” thought the Jew. “ I 
have thwarted you successfully once ; it shall not be the 
last time.” 

When Macleod arrived at Munich his first pro- 
ceeding after securing rooms at the Hotel de Baviere, 
was to seek but Baron von Steudel. 

The baron received him kindly, talked with evident 
pleasure of his visit to the Highlands, and discussed 
the proposed loan. A committee of the Municipal 
Council had been appointed to negotiate the loan, and 
he. Von Steudel, was chairman of that committee. 

“ I think you will have to give 97^ per cent., as there 
will be some competition for it, and a French banker as 
well as a representative of another English house have 
been invited to tender for it. Of course, you can 
count upon my influence in your favour, provided you 
tender as high as the others. The French banker only 
arrives to-morrow, and I did not expect you could be 
here so soon, so that I have fixed Monday for the next 
meeting of the committee. You will therefore have 
time to see the beauties of Munich before you need 
trouble yourself about business.” 

“ Nothing can be done till Monday,” thought Ronald, 
“ and I am within a day’s journey of Venice and of 
Ida.” 

As soon as he could decently take his leave of Von 
Steudel he returned to his hotel. 

He felt that perhaps he might employ his time well 
in getting introduced to some of the Baron’s colleagues, 
but very likely that would do no good, and the idea that 
he might once more see Ida was too great a temptation 
to be resisted. His long absence from her, the very 
memory of the disappointment of his last visit to her 
at Lowcliffe, added to the thought that all her letters 
since then had given him an almost certainty that he 
might wipe out that disagreeable memory and perhaps 
substitute a happy one for it — all combined to form a 
temptation far beyond his strength to resist. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


189 

By six o’clock Ronald was in the train, travelling 
towards the Brenner, which separated him from Italy 
and Ida. As the train mounted the steep inclines 
towards the top of the pass, his spirits seemed to rise 
the higher he went. But while Ronald was travelling 
to Venice, Mr. Pilsener had not been idle. On his 
arrival in Munich, he had almost immediately called 
upon one of the members of the Municipal Council, 
who had written to ask him if he would be dis- 
posed to tender for the loan. He, too, heard that 
Monsieur Vauthier, a French banker, and a repre- 
sentative of the house of Thompson and Haroldson 
were expected to meet the committee on the 
following Monday. But, unlike Ronald, he did not 
waste the time which intervened between his arrival 
and the meeting of the committee. On the contrary, 
he got his friend to write him a letter of introduction 
to his colleagues, and finding that some of them were 
in Munich, and that those who were absent were not 
far away, he managed to call upon them all. 

In his conversations with these gentlemen he ignored 
the object of his visit altogether, but spoke to them 
upon various subjects, drawing them out skilfully 
until he had learned what was the particular hobby of 
each. One member of the committee, a gentleman of 
great artistic taste, and an enthusiastic admirer of 
Italian art, asked him to dinner. Mr. Pilsener 
accepted with effusion. All dinner time the conver- 
sation fell upon art topics, and the host alluded with 
great pride to many of the works of art adorning the 
walls of his dining-room. 

“ Ah, what a grand opportunity you have of studying 
art here in your beautiful city of Munich,” said 
the Jew, as he sipped his “ Liebfrauenmilch “really 
I often think seriously.of settling down here or at least 
making it my head-quarters, so that I may be near 
your marvellous Pinakothek.” 

“ Well, for my part, I think there is no collection 
that equals it, but as a Municher I am perhaps pre- 
judiced, and then, too, I have never seen your National 
Gallery in London.” 

“ As for that, it is not to be compared to your 
collection. But do you know, it strikes me as odd that 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


190 

the only example you have here of that inimitable 
portrait painter, Paris Bordone, is spurious.’* 

“ I am aware of that, and though it is described as 
an original in the catalogue, that is an error, for it is 
well known to be a copy only ; but my dear sir, you 
must remember that Bordones are not to be found 
every day.” 

“No, they are rare, and yet in my poor little collec- 
tion I have a very fine one.” 

“You are indeed fortunate. I would give a year of 
my life to have one, even in the public gallery here, 
but to possess one — ah ! ” and Herr Dekker drew a long 
breath. 

“ And yet it is easy enough,” said the Jew, quietly. 
“ You see that nude figure there in the corner,” he 
continued, pointing to a small picture of Pandora by a 
modern French artist ; “ now that picture has taken 
my fancy immensely, and if you care to do it I shall be 
glad to give you my Bordone for it — that is, provided 
you like my picture when you see it, for I will send for 
it to-night.” 

“ But what are you thinking of, my dear Mr. Pilsener ? 
This is a picture by a living French artist, who will 
paint you any number you like for four or five thousand 
francs ; but a Bordone — my dear sir, it is madness ! ” 

“ Well, you can see the picture in a few days, and I 
assure you you will oblige me greatly if you will make 
the exchange, for that Pandora is charming, and I have 
quite made up my mind to have it.” 

Herr Dekker’s delight was boundless. He could not 
restrain himself for joy, but, rising from his seat, he 
came forward, and, clasping his guest in his arms, he 
imprinted a sounding kiss on each of the Jew’s chubby 
cheeks, while his eyes filled with moisture. Mr. Pilsener 
felt that the time had come to introduce the subject of 
the loan, and as he left the house that night he felt 
that one vote at least was certain in his favour. 

With the next gentleman that he called on he soon 
found that it was unnecessary to be delicate or 
cautious. Herr Markel was a blunt coarse-featured 
man, who offered him some excellent wine, of which he 
partook largely himself. 

“ I thought it was likely you would call upon me,** 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


191 

he said, ** and I made up my mind to tell you, as I 
shall tell the others, that I am a man of business, and 
that I always like people to call a spade a spade.” 

“ Give me your hand, sir, you are a man after my 
own heart. I hate people who beat about the bush ; 
and now I will tell you that I have come to try if I 
cannot induce you to support my application for the 
whole of this loan you are about to issue, but before 
going any further I must ask you to give me another 
glass of this delicious wine.” 

“With pleasure. I see you are a connoisseur of 
wine.” 

“ Thank you I and now I was only about to say that 
if I succeed in getting the loan, you may count upon 
my gratitude,” and Pilsener looked meaningly at Herr 
Markel. 

“ Gratitude,” said the other, “ is doubtless a very 
beautiful quality, but I am no philosopher, and I do 
not care for abstract virtues.” 

“ But there is no reason why this particular virtue 
should not become concrete.” 

“ Freilich ! But, ” continued Herr Markel, tapping 
the side of his ruby-coloured nose with his fat fore- 
finger, “ I am of an inquiring turn of mind, and I 
should like to know what shape it might assume.” 

“ Since you are an amateur of wines, a pot de vin 
might be appropriate.” 

“Capital, capital!” laughed Herr Markel. “But 
though I know you will think I am a walking sign of 
interrogation, I must ask you what this pot de vin will 
consist of ? ” 

“ Twenty per cent, more than those offered by the 
other gentlemen.” 

“ Another glass, Mr. Pilsener, to drink success to 
your enterprise ! I am with you, and I promise you I 
will do my best for you.” 

Thus the wily Jew passed from one committee man 
to another, till by the time the day of meeting came he 
had promises from five out of the nine that they would 
give him the loan provided he tendered for it on equal 
terms to those offered by the other two financiers. 

Meanwhile Ronald sped upon his journey. As the 
night fell he managed to gam a few hours of fitful 


192 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


sleep, but when the dawn rose and the sun shone in 
upon him he threw off his drowsiness ; and the thought 
that he should see Ida that very day drove away his 
fatigue, like the morning mists before that sun 
which was not to set until he had once more spoken to 
her — perhaps clasped her to his heart. 

Onward rolled the train, past the lovely hills of Adio 
Peri Ceramo, stopping (how unnecessarily long, thought 
Ronald) at Verona. But at last the day passed, and as 
the sun began to set the train ran along the viaduct 
which leads across the Lagune to Venice. To any 
traveller, whether bent on business or pleasure, that 
first sight of the City of Palaces rising out of the 
water in the waning sunlight like some fairy structure, 
in the tales of his childhood, must cause a deep and 
ineffaceable impression. But on Ronald, who saw in 
the wondrous pile before him only the costly casket 
holding for him a jewel of inestimable value, this first 
sight of the queenly city fell like some vision of a 
brighter world. 

So great was his emotion that it was with the 
greatest difficulty he could force himself to give the 
necessary directions for the removal of his luggage and 
step into a gpndola — fitting vehicle for one bent upon 
his errand. 

Lady Atherley’s letter to him mentioned that she 
would go to Damieli’s, and he had intended to stay at 
that hotel, but as the gondola glided over the water a 
sort of indefinable weakness seemed to creep over his 
spirit — a vague dread of the happiness for which he 
had so ardently longed, and a childish desire to prolong 
the pleasures of anticipation yet an hour or two. 

“ Are we near Damieli’s ? ” he asked of the gondolier, 
a tall, lithe-looking fellow, with a slouched felt hat, a 
check flannel shirt, a pair of canvas trousers, and a 
face well fitted to make scl ojI girls dream. 

“Not far, signor ; not far. Don’t fear, I shall not 
let you languish on the way. My gondola shall be the 
first at the hotel, and the signor shall be in time for the 
table d'hote^'" and he commenced a bright, lively song, 
to which the plashing of the oar made a musical 
accompaniment. 

“ And this building, what is it ? ” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


193 


“ The Grand Hotel — a good house, I hear, but not 
quite such a favourite with the English as Damieli’s.” 

“ I will try it. Stop here.” 

When Ronald had changed his clothes and dined, he 
started for Damieli’s. Suddenly it occurred to him 
that it was very late to ask for Lady Atherley, and that 
such a course might be disagreeable to her. He there- 
fore returned to his hotel and wrote a note to her. 

“ I AM here,” it said. “ If it is in any way possible, 
let me see you to-night. If you think that unwise, 
then send me a line by the bearer to say what is the 
earliest hour at which I can call in the morning,” 


Taking this letter with him, he called a gondolier 
and went to Damieli’s. Waiting in the gondola, he sent 
the man to the hotel with the letter. In a few minutes 
he returned. As he came through the gathering dark- 
ness Ronald’s heart beat so violently that he felt he 
could hardly bear to wait till the man reached him. 

“ The lady is not in the hotel, signor.” 

Ronald started up as if he had been shot. 

“ What ! Is she not staying there ? ” 

“ Yes, signor, but she is not there in the moment." 

** Perhaps she is at some theatre.” 

“ Very probable.” 

“ Then take me to the chief theatre.” 

The gondola was soon threading its way through the 
little canals leading to Le Fenice. 

The play had commenced some time, and Ronald, 
who spoke Italian but indifferently, soon found the 
fatigue of his journey telling upon him, and after 
looking carefully at each loggia^ and finding to his 
disappointment that Ida was not there, he soon fell 
asleep. After some moments he began to attract 
attention in the audience. 

“ Look at that beast of an Englishman,” said a 
/oung Italian girl to an elderly woman. “ He is so 
drunk he can hardly stay in his seat. What a waste 
of money to pay for a place and not to see more of the 
acting than that.” 

“ Ah ! these Englishmen always have lots of money 

N 


194 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


to waste,” answered the old woman, and she watched 
him intently for some time. 

“ Ignazio,” she said, suddenly turning to a young 
fellow of some two and twenty years of age, see that 
Englishman ; he must have gold enough to spare some 
for us.” And she whispered to him for some time. 

When the next act was over, Ronald, who had been 
awakened by the bravos of the audience, felt that he 
had had enough of the theatre, and strolled out into the 
narrow streets which surround it. Presently he found 
himself in the Piazza of St. Marco ; he thought he had 
never seen anything so beautiful before ; “ and to think 
she is in the same town with me, and that perhaps this 
very day she has crossed this Piazza — this day hei 
eyes may have rested on those marvellous cupolas^ 
and to-morrow, when a few short hours shall have 
passed, I may be standing here with her by my side.” 

A young man, with a long pipe in his mouth, passed 
him rapidly. Ronald turned and looked at him. 
“ What an odd fellow that is,” he thought, “ I have 
seen him pass me two or three times to-night, and, 
though he seems in a hurry, I always catch him up 
again.” 

Ronald walked on to the Piazzetta, and stood 
between the columns of St. Mark and St. George. In 
front of him the broad canah di St. Marco stretched 
away like some sheet of silver, bounded by the shadowy 
structures of the I sola di Giorgio Maggiore. Towards 
the right the marble dome of La Salute glinting in the 
moonlight seemed to sit upon the water like a gigantic 
bubble ready to be blown away should the slightest 
breeze spring up. On his left the diical palace, its red 
walls softened to a delicate pink beneath the bright rays 
of the moon, rose proudly against the deep blue of the 
sky, while its shadow, like some inky pool upon the 
white stones of the Piazzetta, seemed to flow towards 
Ronald as he stood entranced by the beauty of the 
scene. 

Suddenly the sound of a rapid step awakened him 
from his reverie, and turning quickly he saw the young 
man who had passed him scve al times before moving 
quickly towards him. Ronald remembered the Italian 
proverb which says “ Be careful how you stand 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


*95 


between the columns of the Piazzeta,*’ and seeing that 
he was alone with the stranger he instinctively drew 
himself up and clenched his fists, ready to fell the man 
with a blow if he should attempt robbery. " 

But Ignazio — for it was he who had been follovnng 
Ronald, said — ^in a low tone, as he passed by, “ I have 
a message for you, signor, from a lady,” and he strode 
on to the edge of the water. 

A message from a lady — there could only be one 
lady in Venice who would send him one, but how 
could this man know where to find him ? He followed 
Ignazio, who was standing gazing into the canal. 

“ What is your message ? ” 

“ That the lady wishes to see you at once.*’ 

‘‘ Where — at heir hotel ? ” 

•‘No, I will conduct you.** 

“ And what sort of a lady is it, and how did you 
know where to find me ? ” 

“ It is a beautiful lady; she saw you in the theatre, 
and told me to go to you ; but you went out, and then 
I followed you.” 

“ But why did you not speak to me before.” 

“ Ah, Signor, I am more discreet than that.” 

Is it a tall lady with rich, red brown hair.” 

“ Yes, yes, just that.*’ 

•* Lead, then. I will follow.** 

Threading a number of narrow alleys, now between 
tall houses which seemed to meet overhead, and now 
between stagnant canals, Ignazio stopped at last in 
one of the meanest-looking streets and tapped at a 
door. 

Ronald hesitated. “ Surely the lady does not live 
here in this wretched place,” he said. 

“ Oh, Signor, this is the back entrance. The front 
is on the canal, and is very magnificent ; but I must 
take you in this way.” 

Ronald’s hopes fell. It was not likely that Ida 
could be here ; but, on the other hand, it was 
very probable that his guide had led him here in 
order to rob him. He wished he had a revolver 
with him, but he had not thought of taking one when 
he left London. He felt that he was imprudent to 
enter the house, but yet he did not like to run even 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


196 

the slightest risk of missing an interview with Ida. In 
his pocket he had a large clasp knife, with a blade some 
five inches long, which had let the life out of many a 
stag on the Ross-shire and Sutherland hills, “ This is 
better than nothing,” he thought, and followed Ignazio 
into the house. Opening the door softly, the young 
Italian whispered, “ In there, signor, and make no 
noise.” 

Ronald walked into a poorly furnished room which 
contained a bed, a rickety-looking table, beside which 
sat a young girl with dyed yellow hair and rouged 
cheeks, and a few chairs standing here and there on 
the uncarpeted floor. There was no doubt in his mind 
as to what sort of place he had been inveigled into. 

I thought a lady — a friend of mine — had sent for 
me,” he said, “ but I see there is some mistake here, 
and I will leave at once.” 

“ Ah, no ! handsome Signor. There is no mistake. 
It was I who saw you in -the theatre, and my heart was 
filled with love for you, so I sent to ask you to come 
and drink a glass of wine with me.” 

“Thank you for your hospitality, but the hour is 
late, and I have no inclination to drink anything.” 

“ Only just one little glass,” said the girl, taking his 
hand, “ and you will not go so soon — ^you have, not 
even given me a kiss,” and, looking into his eyes, she 
held up her lips to him. 

“ I don’t like kissing,” said Ronald, and he turned to 
leave. 

At this moment the door opened, and the old woman 
who had watched Ronald at the theatre came in and 
began storming furiously at the girl, and then turned 
upon Ronald and upbraided him for bringing dishonour 
upon her daughter. 

“ This is nonsense,” said Ronald, calmly; “ if your 
daughter has never suffered any other dishonour than 
that I have brought on her she must be a paragon of 
purity, and her appearance is cruelly unkind to her.” 

“ Ah ! now you insult me too ; this is too much; here, 
Ignazio, look at this villain, who brings disgrace upon 
us.” 

The young man entered the room with a dagger in 
his hande 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


197 


** This looks serious,” thought Ronald, snatching a 
shawl which had fallen from the girl’s shoulders, and 
wrapping it round his forearm while he hastily drew 
his knife from his pocket and opened it. 

“ I have seen enough acting for to-night at the 
theatre,” he said, “ and I don’t want to witness an 
amateur performance. I have been a fool to come 
here, but I suppose I must pay for my folly. How 
much do you want to let me go ? ” 

“ A thousand lire.” 

“ I am not quite so foolish as that. I warn you that 
if you make unreasonable demands I shall pay you 
nothing.” 

“ Well, I will be moderate — say five hundred.” 

** I have not anything like so much money upon me ; 
besides, I tell you that I will not pay you an exorbitant 
price for my folly, and therefore you may know at once 
that if you try to extort such a sum from me I will 
fight if need be, and I think I am a match for that 
young fellow even if you hinder me. I will pay you a 
louis and go.” 

“ A louis ! By all the saints, I will not take less 
than four hundred lire.” 

“You weary me,” said Ronald, taking a couple of 
louis in his hand, and holding them out to the woman. 
“ Take these and let me depart peaceably, for it is 
the utmost I will give you.” 

The sight of the gold altered the old woman’s tone. 

“ Make it three louis, Signorito Mio,” she said, in a 
wheedling voice. 

“ Two or nothing,” said Ronald, growing impatient. 

“ Ah, just give one poor little louis more, and I will 
let you go in peace, sure. Only look what a lovely child 
she is.” 

“ Miserable old devil,” cried Ronald, whose Italian 
vocabularly was rather limited in the matter of 
jxpletives, and throwing the gold pieces on the table, 
he seized a candle and made for the door. 

“ At least, leave the shawl,” cried the old woman. 

“ When I am outside I will leave it on the pave- 
ment,” and Ronald passed out, walking down the stair 
backwards for fear of a surprise, but the man did not 
attempt to follow him. 


HIS LAST PASSION* 


Z98 

When he stood once more in the open street he 
breathed more freely. As he wandered about trying to 
find his way, and thinking over his adventure, he found 
himself once more on the Piazza of St. Mark. 

“ Here I am en pays de connaissance at last,*’ he 
thought ; and the warning in the proverb has proved 
to be not altogether unnecessary ; but, though sorrow 
endureth for the night, the morning will bring me a joy 
to repay me for a thousand misadventures such as this.” 

When Ronald awoke the next morning he was glad 
to find that he had slept so long that by the time he 
had breakfasted it was late enough to call on Lady 
Atherley. Hastening to Damieli’s, he gave his card to 
the porter, and said he would wait while it was taken 
up to her. 

“ But she is not here, sir.” 

“ How is that ? I sent a note to her last night, and 
I was then told that she was staying here.” 

“Yes, sir, but she left in a yacht yesterday morning, 
and will not be back for a day or two.” 

“ Where has she gone to ? ” 

“ I don’t know, sir, but she left a letter, perhaps it is 
for you. 

Ronald took the letter. He felt almost stunned by 
this news and was unable to open it. Holding it in 
his hand, he walked and walked not heeding in what 
direction, till at last he found himself in front of St. 
Mark’s. Entering the cathedral, he sat down in a quiet 
corner and broke open the envelope. The letter ran 
thus- : — 

“ You can’t think, cher ami^ how sorry I am to have to 
go, but the others wanted to go to Trieste, and I could 
not get out of it. It would have been too nice, seeing 
you again here, wouldn’t it? but what could I do ? 
What a dear, impetuous boy you are, to come all this 
way at a moment’s notice. It is so good of you. I 
wish I could have stopped you, but when your 
telegram reached me you must have been starting, 
so that I thought it was useless to send you a message. 
Good-bye. Hoping for better times, I am, 

“Your Ida.” 

“ P.S. — Don’t come on to Trieste, as I don’t 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


199 


suppose we shall stop there, and I can’t say what our 
next move will be.” 

How bitter life seemed to him as he sat there alone 
in the dark corner of that beautiful cathedral. Then 
he gazed at the letter which was open before him 
mechanically, without seeing it, while his thoughts 
went far away until at last his eye caught some word in 
the letter, and he re-read it several times. 

“ She does not, she cannot, love me,” he thought, 
“and yet why does she always draw me after her? 
Why does she always give me hope? And it is for 
this that I have tarnished my honour, that I ha^e 
stooped to the baseness of falsehood, and flung aside 
my own self-esteem!” 

The Patriarch of Venice passed through the cathedral, 
surrounded by dignitaries of the church and acolytes 
swinging censers of incense. He saw the look of 
sorrow on Ronald’s face, and paused for a moment to 
give him his blessing. Ronald bowed his head 
reverently. How he longed that the Faith which 
he saw symbolized by so many objects around him 
might have a real meaning for him. But no 1 The 
blessed promise of a future life, where all that 
is wrong here shall be done away, and where there 
shall be no heartaches and no remorse, were to him but 
as the fairy stories of his youth — very beautiful if they 
only could have been true, but quite beyond the belief of 
rational men. Then he went to the hotel and wrote a 
letter to Ida — a mad, passionate letter full of his 
sorrow, and of his wild love for her — a letter which 
came straight from his heart. He showed her how 
he would have thrown over every engagement in 
the world for her if she had been coming to see 
him, and how easy it must have been for her to 
be too unwell to start for another day. In conclusion, 
he told her that he should nevfer in his life go anywhere 
to see her again unless she expressly invited him to 
come. 

A few hours ^ he was travelling back to Munich, 
and as the train steamed across the Lagurie he gave a 
last lingering look to the lovely city which he had 
entered so full of hope but a few short hours before, as 


200 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


though he expected each moment to see it fade away 
like his dream of happiness and be lost to sight for 
ever. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A LETTER. 

When, after a considerable time spent in deliberation, 
the Financial Committee announced that the City oi 
Munich Loan was confided entirely to Mr. Pilsener, 
who had agreed to take it firm at 99, Ronald was not 
astonished that he should have lost this prize, but he 
was surprised at the very high figure which Pilsener 
had offered for it. 

That night Von Steudel had invited the three 
financiers to dine with him. 

Pilsener, who had not forgotten Ronald’s reception 
of his offer to compromise the Sandborough petition, 
co\ild not help showing his satisfaction at the result of 
his application for the loan. 

“It is really unfortunate, Mr. Macleod, that our 
desires should have clashed again, and that I should 
not only have deprived you of a seat in Parliament, 
but that I should also have been successful in getting 
the means of paying the expenses I have been put to 
by your petition. It only remains for us to fall in love 
with the same lady, but if that happens I am afraid I 
shall not win the treble event.” 

“ I don’t know that you are very much to be con- 
gratulated even so far. Your first event, as you call it, 
seems likely to be a failure after all, and a most 
expensive one. As for the matter of this loan, I doubt 
if you will clear your expenses of issue with the small 
margin left by the price you have given for it.” 

“ Ah ! there I think you are mistaken, for I fancy I 
can read the signs of the times pretty well, and I mean to 
have a very large margin. I shall issue a third of the loan 


His LAST passion. 


dot 

at par, and, unless I am very much mistaken, it will be 
applied for ten times over at that figure, and as I shall 
myself hold a considerable portion of it, a demand for 
it will spring up at the very first settlement, so that I 
have very little doubt it will soon run up to ten or 
twelve premium, and then I shall be able to issue the 
remainder at a very nice profit.” 

“ You are very sanguine. Don’t you think, Herr vou 
Steudel, that Mr. Pilsener is rating the credit of your 
city rather high ? ” 

“ I should think so; but if he is right, it is the last 
time he will get a loan to negotiate for us, for it is 
monstrous that he should make so large a profit out 
of us.” 

“ One such negotiation is enough, my dear Herr Von 
Steudel, and I am glad to say the agreements are 
signed now, and your good city may fret over its bar- 
gain, but it cannot draw back now. Yes, gentlemen, 
now that I have the grapes I am not surprised that you 
should think they must be a little sour.” 

Ronald’s heart was too heavy for him to take much 
heed of Pilsener’s manner, and he deigned not to reply. 

Though Messrs. Thompson and Haroldson had been 
informed by telegraph of the failure of their offer, 
Ronald felt strongly averse to meet them, and when he 
entered his office on his return to town he could not 
avoid showing his chagrin. But his senior partner 
took him kindly by the hand, and said : 

“ Don’t be down-hearted about this, Macleod. You 
can’t expect to find every transa;ction in business pro- 
fitable — at least, we have lost nothing by this failure, 
and the fact that we were able to tender for the loan 
will be noised about, and that will certainly be a benefit 
to us.” 

When on the ist November Ronald read in the 
Morning Post the announcement that the Atherleys had 
returned to town, his heart sank within him as he 
contrasted the emotion which he then felt with the 
feelings which this news would have awakened in him 
if he had never been to Venice. How eagerly he would 
have rushed off to see her if he had never undert^en 
that luckless journey. But now he determined that he 
would not call upon her. No ; if chance threw them 


R18 LAST PASSION. 


SOS 

together he would speak to her courteously as a mere 
acquaintance, but he would make no reference to the 
past, and henceforth he would never see her alone. 

But how often when man proposes woman disposes. 
On his return home that very day Ella came to him, 
and said : 

“ You have only just missed someone you would so 
much like to have seen. Lady Atherley has only left 
the house about five minutes ago, and if you had not 
got into the habit of coming home so late you would 
have seen her. Now, aren’t you sorry ? ** 

“ No, it is no great loss.” 

“ Ronald, how can you be so absurd ? You know 
you like her, and what is the use of pretending you 
don’t ? If I had shown you any jealous feeling about 
her, ^ou might have thought it necessary to hide your 
admiration for her, but you know I am very glad to 
seeEer. Why, she came here just now to ask us to a 
little dance which she is trying to get up this day week.” 

“ And have you refused ? ” 

“ No, of course I accepted, for I had no engagement, 
and I felt sure that if you had any, you would put it off 
to go there.” 

“ I don't like dances.” 

“Well, but this is only a little one, some fifty or 
sixty persons, and — but I wish you would not always 
think it necessary to try and deceive me, for I know 
how anxious you must be to see her after her long 
absence from town.” 

Ronald felt vexed about this dance, and he tried to 
persuade himself he would rather not see Ida for some 
time ; but the true state of his feelings became apparent 
to him when he found himself thinking, “ Well, I must 
meet her some day — ^why not now ? ” 

When the Macleods arrived at Grosvenor Square 
on the evening of the dance. Lady Atherley received 
them very cordially. 

“ So kind of you to have come in this informal way,” 
she said to Ella. 

“ You have never come to see me since my return,” 
she added in a low tone to Ronald, and the arrival of 
some other guests relieved him of the necessity of a 
reply. 


HIS LAST PASSION 


ao3 

Ronald danced but little. At last, when the pro- 
gramme had been half finished, Ida came to him and 
said ; — 

“ Are you not going to ask me to dance ?’* 

“ I thought you would be too much engaged in your 
own house to spare me a dance! ” 

“ Nonsense — dance this with me.” 

“ With pleasure.” 

As Ronald put his arm round Ida’s waist, a young 
subaltern in the Guards came up and, blushing awk- 
wardly, said, as he struggled with a glove which would 
not be buttoned — 

I think I am to have the honour of this dance.” 

Lady Atherley looked up sweetly into his eyes. “ I 
am so sorry. Lord Moraine,” she said, “ but I quite 
forgot to write down Mr. Macleod’s dance, but I have 
been engaged to him from the beginning of the 
evening. Don’t be angry with me — it is awfully stupid 
of me, but you must come to me after this dance, and 
see if we can’t arrange another.” 

The young Guardsman walked off, and soon succeeded 
in finding another partner. 

“ I am surprised that you should think it worth while 
to throw over your guests for me in this way,” said 
Ronald, as they waltzed round the room. 

“You are angry with me, Ronald. Oh, don’t be 
unkind to me on this the night of our first meeting after 
so long an absence.” 

“ And whose fault is it that it has been so long ? ” 

“ Ah, you don’t understand, you don’t know, how I 
was watched by the people at Venice ; I really could 
not get off that trip to Trieste.” 

“ This I know and understand, that if you had come 
half a mile to see me no engagement should have pre- 
vented me from meeting you. But what does it" 
matter ? I love you, and you don’t return my love ; it 
is very simple. Let us be friends, if we can be nothing 
more.” 

“ Don’t talk like that, Ronald. Come, take me to 
get some refreshment.” 

They went down to the supper room, but as they 
passed the door of her boudoir, “ Come in here a 
moment,” she said, and they entered the room in 


204 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


which she had so nearly forgotten herself on that night 
of the “ Holborn” dinner. 

“ Why do you bring me here?’* asked Ronald, as 
they stood before the fire. 

She put her hands on his shoulders, and, looking 
full into his eyes, she said : 

“ Because I wanted to ask you here if you had 
forgotten our past so soon, if you will allow the pique 
engendered by one seemingly unkind act to mar the 
happiness of both of us.” 

He gazed at the shapely white arms shining the 
whiter upon his black coat, and pressing his lips on 
one of them, he answered her with a tone of deep 
sadness in his voice : — 

“ Pique, Ida ! Such a word can have no meaning 
between us, for it is a feeling of which I am incapable 
towards you. Sorrow, yes — possibly even anger, who 
knows ? but pique, never ! Nor is it one act, darling, 
which shows me that what is the love of a lifetime on 
my part is but a momentary caprice with you. Since 
you have brought me to this room and have not dreaded 
to speak of the past, you will forgive me for alluding to 
it. Six months have passed away since that scene 
took place between us in this very place, and am I one 
whit nearer calling you my own than I was on that 
night ? Am I not rather much farther from such a 
crowning of my wishes ? ” 

“ And do you think that the mere fact of my having 
given myself to you would make my heart any more 
yours than it is now ? ” 

“ I hope and believe it.” 

The door opened and one of the guests came in. 
“ Ah, Lady Atherley, I have found you at last. Our» 
dance is half over, but better late than never.” 

“ I am so sorry, but we cannot hear the music here.” 
Then turning to Ronald she said, “ Our next* dance is 
the eleventh, I think.” Ronald looked at his pro- 
gramme, which was almost empty. 

“ Yes, thank you, the eleventh,” and he wrote her 
name on the little card. 

During the dances which intervened between the one 
just finished and the one she had promised him, he 
felt much bored, for his heart was so full of hopes and 


BIS LAST PASSIOB. 


^05 

fears that he could scarcely force himself to speak to 
anyone. At last the eleventh dance 'came. Lady 
Atherley was standing near the supper table, in the 
centre of a group of four or five men, who were vying 
with each other in their endeavours to say something 
complimentary to her, when Ronald came to her, and, 
bowing, said : 

“ I think this is our dance. Lady Atherley.’* 

“ Yes, but you are an old friend enough for me to ask 
you to let me dance it with someone else. You see, a 
guest of my husband’s has only just arrived, and as 
Sir Algernon is particularly anxious that I should 
dance with him, I have looked down my card to see 
which partner I could best rely on not to take offence 
at being thrown over, and I have chosen you — that is, 
if you won’t be angry.” 

“ Of course not,” said Ronald, and bowing again he 
walked away as if the loss of his dance was a matter 
of no consequence ; but he felt that on that night, when 
they still had so much to say to one another, she might 
have sacrificed someone else rather than him to the 
exigencies of her husband. But when a few minutes 
later he stood at the drawing-room door waiting to see 
who was the lucky man to whom his dance had been 
gwen, Ida passed him with her hand on the arm of an 
insignificant-looking little man, his heart was filled 
with rage as he recognised the bright complexion and 
Jewish features of Mr. Pilsener. 

“ Ha, Mr. Macleod,” he said, as the crowd detained 
him and his partner for a moment outside the drawing- 
room door, “ you have seen in the papers, have you 
not, my loan is at three premium already, though it 
was only issued three days ago. You see you were 
wrong in supposing that I offered too high a figure for 
it.” 

Ronald deigned not to answer. The idea that this 
foul little Jew should hold Ida in his arms for a moment 
was sickening to him. He thought he would leave 
before the dance commenced, but Ella was engaged, 
and he could not leave her to come home alone. 

As soon as the dance was over he found his wife, 
and they were leaving the room together, when Lady 
Atherley came up to them. , 


9o6 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


“ Don't go yet,” she said, “ it is quite early, and you 
haven’t given me a dance to-night, Mr. Macleod ; you 
know you really ought to ask your hostess to dance, 
and surely you have still some engagements, Mrs. 
Macleod— now, haven’t you ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Ella, “ but my husband is so lazy 
at dances now, and he always wants to get home 
early.” 

But he really shall stay, if it is only to give me a 
dance now.” 

“ I asked you for one before. Lady Atherley, but your 
card was full.” 

“Yes, I know; one has to dance with such. lots of 
people at one’s own house. But now, if you will stay, 
I will give you this very dance. Is it agreed ? ” 

Of course Ronald could not leave after such an offer, 
and he gave his arm to his hostess. 

“ Come to the boudoir,” she said, “ or my partner 
will be looking for me and trying to carry me off.” 

“ Since you had to throw me over for the last dance, 
I wish it had been for anyone else rather than that 
wretched little Hebrew. I hope you don’t like him.” 

“ Like him ? No ; he is an odious little brute, but I 
believe he is to be a sort of Rothschild or Baron Grant 
some day, and that he is making fabulous sums of 
money.” 

“ Rothschild — ^hardly that ; a Grant, perhaps ; don't 
you know that he is the man who beat me at Sand- 
borough ? ” 

“ No — is he? then I must hate him.” 

“ And when I tell you that while I was idiotically 
rushing off to Venice to see a woman who did not care 
two straws for me, he was using the time of my absence 
to gain over the votes of the Munich Council, and thus 
obtain the issue of that loan, which is now putting 
vast sums into his pocket instead of into mine.” 

“ Oh, Ronald, don’t say that I have been the cause 
of your losing large sums.” 

“I don’t say that, and should be sorry if you thought 
it. I only say that this villainons little Pilsener has 
been twice successful where I have failed, and that he 
said it only remained for us to fall in love with the 
same woman, so that I fully expect he will be at your 


MIS LAST PASSION. WOf 

feet before long, and it seems to me that his chance 
of success cannot be worse than mine.” 

“ But, deaf Ronald, why are you so impatient ? 
You would not have me throw myself at your head.” 

“ No ; but I know that it is not a sense of right and 
wrong, or of religious duty, which restrains you ; and, 
therefore, I cannot help thinking that if you loved me,, 
you would make no difficulty about listening to my suit; 
and I feel confident that, if you could but love me as I 
do you, my life would be so different.” 

“But have I not told you' often that to those who 
can wait ” 

“ Yes, but there are limits to human patience. Am 
I to wait till I have one foot in the grave, or till we 
have seen our grandchildren settled in life, and then to 
obtain my reward.” 

Lady Atherley laughed. “ Time and I will hardly 
be so hard on you as that, but I think I am worth 
waiting for. See how many great men have waited 
patiently for the object of their wishes, and their 
patience has been rewarded at last. Take Napoleon 
III., a man I have always admired and respected. 
Look how he waited for years, and ■” 

“ The result of his waiting was Spdan. No, Ida; tell 
me now, do you love me or do you not ? If not, let us 
meet as friends, but not alone, and I, for my part, will 
speak to you no more of my love ; but if you do love 
me some proof of your love.” _ ” 

Ronald was holding both her hands in his, and looking 
eagerly into her eyes, as though he would read the 
thoughts that were passing in her heart. For some 
seconds she was silently looking into his eyes. Gently 
disengaging her hands from his, she took his head and, 
drawing it towards her, pressed a long kiss upon his 
forehead. 

“ I love you,” she said, and her words were scarcely 
audible, “ be satisfied.” 

He drew her passionately to him, crushing the 
flowers she wore in . her bosom, and covering her face 
and arms with kisses. 

‘ “ But I am not satisfied,” he whispered. “ If you do 
love me, give me proof of your love.” 

‘‘But you know that I do love you.” 


2o8 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


“ Oh, my darling Ida ! how can I thank you enough 
for these words ? * But will you grant me one more inter- 
view ? I have so much to say to you ?” 

“ On Thursday next I shall be alone at Brighton at 
the Grand Hotel” 

“ Do you mean it ?” 

“ Yes, and if I do not keep it never trust me again.” 

“ Oh, a million thanks, my darling pet, my sweet 
lovely Ida — my queen — my goddess. I have suffered 
much on your account, and this night I meant to have 
spoken for the last time of the intense love I bear you, 
and then to have buried it in my heart for ever ; but 
now, I feel I shall go mad with joy.” 

“ Enough — enough, my dear boy ; really my dress is 
not fit to be seen. My poor flowers are all crushed, and 
people are likely to come in here at any moment, so go 
now and good-bye till Thursday,” 

With one last, long, fervent kiss they parted. On the 
following Wednesday night Ronald sat up late smoking 
in his study. He felt that the morrow would be one of 
the great turning-points in his life. He took up a 
portrait of his wife — a photograph — taken when 
she was little more than a child — the one she had 
had taken for him when they were engaged. Then his 
thoughts wandered back across the long years of his 
wedded life, and he contrasted the pure and ennobling 
affection he had felt for Ella with the wild lurid unholy 
passion for Ida which now consumed him, and how he 
regretted that calm pure love of the long ago as he 
thought of the mistakes, the faults, the heartburnings, 
and the thousand nameless trivialities which had killed 
Ella’s love for him and laid it in its tomb — never to rise 
again. 

And this new Eros which had risen up in its place — 
would it bring him happiness ? He stifled the voice 
within him which would have answered, “No.” 

And then he thought of the morrow — how, in less 
than twenty-four hours, he would perhaps realize all his 
dreams — and, as the picture rose before his mind, his 
eyes glowed with an unnatural light and the blood crim- 
soned his pale cheeks. He opened one of the drawers 
in his desk to put away the likeness of Ella — his 
eye fell upon a manuscript in her handwriting. It 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


309 


was a Journal kept by her in the old days when she 
first knew him. It was a simple, artless record of a 
pure and unsullied nature. He turned over the pages 
and read of their first meetings — of walks in the woods 
— of a parting in a summer-house. Then followed her 
resolutions to strive against temptation and to over- 
come those innocent sins (so heinous in her own eyes) 
into which alone she had fallen. Then came the entry 
of their last meeting, the day before he asked her to be 
his for ever. It ran thus : — 

September 3rd. — The day of days has come at last, 
that day for which through so many weary months I 
have longed so intensely. I have seen him again, my 
king, my love, my life. Yes, he is fairer than the 
sons of men, his eyes are so wondrous, and I like to 
imagine the angels like him — and oh, he loves me 
still — my beauty, my king, he condescends to love 
poor little me. He said I had grown part of his life ; oh, 
I feel so happy, so very very happy, and yet my darling 
did not look well. There is a saying ‘ Whom the 
gods love die young.’ It haunts me ; but why should 
it ? We know nO godsy only one God, and He never 
created any being so purely beautiful, so noble, as my 
love without giving him some great mission. Oh, my 
God ! thou knowest how weak I am. I want to be Thy 
servant in truth as well as in name, but, oh, how 
miserably I fail ! Thy banner over me is always 
‘dove,’ and yet I am not half grateful. And now Thou 
hast given me this blessed earthly love. Oh, how can 
I thank Thee for it ! But do Thou grant that, however 
much I love, he may be still only my king, not my God ; 
and do Thou bless him to all eternity.” 

“ September 4th. — Yes, this has been the happiest 
day of my life, and oh, what a glorious autumn day it 
has been ! How the sun shone, how the birds sang, 
how all nature seemed to rejoice, and I have been, oh, 
so happy, for He, my Love, my King, has asked me to 
be his wife, his own wife! Oh, the sweet, sweet 
Sabbath moriiing, when we vowed eternal faith to 
each other! That faith seemed to come straight 
from heaven. How wondrous fair the woods looked 1 

o 


210 


HI8 LAST PASSION, 


And then the walk down by the seashore, when the 
water shone like burnished gold against the soft purple 
of the far-off hills. I felt too, too happy, and I prayed 
God to give me strength to love him well, but not to 
worship him. How often have I prayed that I might 
not make him my idol, and rather than this to take him 
from me. Oh I that I were more worthy of his love, 
but I must try ; and, oh I God, help us and bless us 
both.” 

He closed the leaves reverently. “ And this is what 
I have lost,” he thought. And now he was about to 
break the vow which he had made to that pure-hearted 
girl on the day of his marriage, so many years ago. In 
thought he had broken it before, but not in fact — and 
now, after it had withstood the temptations of so many 
years, he was going to fling it to the winds at the 
bidding of a woman whom he felt he could not trust — a 
woman who probably had no heart left to give him even if 
she desired to do so. But he never hesitated for a moment 
though he felt the wrong he was doing — though he knew 
that he was giving Ida his whole heart, that he was 
sacrificing for her all that was good and noble in his 
nature. He went forth to her as he would have gone 
to death or to torture for her, without even thinking 
of the possibility of drawing back. 

When he reached Brighton the rain was pouring 
down steadily, and the muddy streets looked cold and 
deserted, but dreary as the prospect was, Ronaldos 
heart was full of sunshine, and the dull dreary streets 
seemed bright and cheerful to him as he drove rapidly 
through them with the happy consciousness that each 
turn of the wheels was bringing him nearer to the 
realization of the great dream which had possessed 
him for so many months. Of all the passengers 
arriving at Brighton that night, Ronald was the first to 
arrive at the Grand Hotel. 

“ I want a room,” he said, hurriedly, to the clerk in 
the office. 

“ Very sorry, but you can’t have one, as the hotel is 
full.” 

“ Oh, but I will sleep anywhere — anything will do 
for me.” 


HIS LAST PASSION* 


211 


“ Unhappily, there is no room, however small, which 
we can give you.” 

This was an unforeseen blow to Ronald. While he 
was yet discussing the matter with the clerk, Lady 
Atherley came up. 

“ I thought I recognised your voice, Mr. Macleod,*’ 
she said ; “ how funny your being here. Are you stay- 
ing in the hotel ? ” 

“ No ; unluckily I can’t get in, as there is no room.” 

“ Then you must come and dine with us here, 
and get a room in some other hotel. Will you 
come ? ” 

“With great pleasure,” and he started off in search 
of another hotel. 

“ After all, it is, perhaps, safer so,” he thought. 

Maud Langmore was staying with Lady Atherley. 
She reminded Ronald of the evening when they had last 
dined together, and showed him that she had not for- 
gotten some of his quaint sayings ; but the mad, happy 
humour of that evening was wanting to make this 
dinner as bright as the last, and they all three con- 
stantly returned to that evening when they had heard 
those absurd songs at the “Canterbury,” as if they 
felt that in turning over their memories of that joyous 
night they might find again some of the happy emotions 
they had then experienced. 

But somehow the conversation lacked sparkle, and 
the spirits of the party seemed incapable of rising 
beyond a dull calm level. Ronald asked himself how 
it could be that on the eve of realizing his dream he 
should feel, a placidity bordering on sadness. Could it 
be that Ida was repenting her promise, and that he, 
with that fine sense of sympathy which now existed 
between them, had divined that repentance almost 
before she was aware of it herself. 

“ Sing us something, Maud,” said Lady Atherley, as 
they sat in her sitting-room after dinner. 

Miss Langmore sat down at the piano and played 
Rubinstein’s charming little “ Melody,” with great 
feeling. 

“ That is quite lovely,” said Ronald, as she finished. 

“ Yes, but it is sad ; and besides, Maud, it is not 
singing,” said Lady Atherley, walking across to the 


212 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


piano and kissing Miss Langmore’^s forehead. “ Come, 
now, sing us something livelier.” 

Maud began to sing, and Lady Atherley came back 
ta Ronald and sat beside him on the sofa. He took 
her hand, and looked into her eyes. 

“ What is wrong ?” he asked. “ Are you sorry that 
I have come ?” 

“ No, but I do feel unhappy, for I suppose you do not 
really love me, but that you only fancy me because I 
am handsome, and you think I am ‘a fine woman.* 

‘‘ Ida, you cannot think that. Don’t you know far 
better than I can tell you, that I only press my suit so 
madly because I feel that, if once you could love me 
as I do you, I would hold your love for ever ? My darling, 
you have promised to give me this proof of your love. 
Say that you love me, and I swear that I will never again 
trouble you, unless you give me some sign of your 
love.” 

“ And what would that prove ? Only that possession 
had killed love.” 

‘‘Can you suppose, then, that any man, even if 
he did not love you, could be untrue to you ? No, he 
would long more ardently for you than ever. No, 
my darling; the very fact that, after all which has 
passed between us, you have still held back the earnest 
avowal of your love, is to me a proof that you would 
never grant that favour unless your heart were really 
mine and mine only,’^ ^ 

“ And what would you think if I told you that I 
hesitate still to take so irrevocable a step ? ” 

“ I should say that you have hitherto behaved 
monstrously to me, for if you love me you cannot 
hesitate; and if you do not, then how can you have 
allowed our past ? — how can you have asked me here 
to-night ? ” 

She crept close to him and putting her head upon his 
shoulder said, “ But I do like you awfully — I may learn 
to love you.” 

Ronald, who had felt half frightened at the turn the 
conversation was taking, was overwhelmed with delight 
at her last words, for he had staked all his happiness 
on this passion for her, and now at last he had won 
her. For a second he folded her in his arms. Miss 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


ai3 

Langmore ceased her song, and Lady Atherley drew 
herself away quietly, so that Maud should not hear the 
rustle of her dress. 

“ Thank you, dear,” she said. ** I liked that last one 
so much ” — with a meaning glance at Ronald — “just 
one more before you get up.” Maud sang one more. 

“You must say good-night to us early, and then I 
can send Maud off soon. You can wait till she is safe 
in her room and then come back here. Leave your 
gloves, so that you can have an excuse for coming back 
in case you were seen — and now, Ronald, promise me 
that you will leave me directly I ask you.” 

“ I swear it.” 

Ronald soon took his leave, and went down to the 
billiard-room to wait till Miss Langmore was gone. 
When he returned to Lady Atherley’s sitting-room, he 
found the room in darkness ; but the door of the ad- 
joining room was not quite closed, and a light shone 
through. He pushed the door open half timidly. Ida 
had changed her dress for a white peignoir, trimmed 
with cherry-coloured ribbons. Directly she saw him 
she came forward with both her hands stretched out to 
him. He caught her in his arms and pressed her to 
him, as he murmured, “ At last ! ” 

But she pushed him gently from her. 

“ Dear Ronald,” she said, softly, as she held his 
hands, “ I am going to ask you a great favour.” 

“ Any, my darling. Whatever it may be, Lwill grant 
it most willingly.’” 

“ Then leave me now.” 

“ Oh, Ida I how can you ask that ? And your 
promise — ^you have not kept it yet. Let me stay one 
hour with you, and then I will go.” 

“ No, no, Ronald; go now, at once.”^ 

“ But why did you let me come back if you intended 
to send me away at once ? is this the proof of love 
which you promised me ? ” 

“ It was because I gave that promise that I let you 
come. It would have been easy for me to lock my 
door, but I wished to be kind to you. Now do go.” 

Ronald could not believe his ears. 

“ And your promise ? ” was all he could say. 

“ Oh, if you insist on that,” said Ma, her affectionate 


214 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


manner changing and turning suddenly cold. “ Well 
you may stay; but not because I love you, but because I 
have foolishly promised in a thoughtless moi\ient that 
which I now look upon with distaste.” 

For a moment a cloud of anger swept over Ronald’s 
soul, and he thought : 

“ I will hold her to her promise, come what may. 
She has fooled me long enough. Why this change in 
you ? ” he asked, almost fiercely ; “ I know you have 
no religious scruples. Do you fear discovery ? or what 
is it that has made you lead me on as if you loved me, 
only to send me away now ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I feel I would rather you went away 
now. Do go, like a good dear fellow. I might be 
compromised here. Some day I will be good ; wait 
yet a little while.” 

Ronald felt the veins swelling in his forehead. He 
hardly dared trust himself to speak. 

“ I go,” he said, “ since you send me away, but 
remember, Ida, I go to return no more,” and he 
hurried through the sitting-room. She hastened after 
him and caught his arm as he was passing out into the 
passage. 

“Stay, Ronald,” she said, coaxingly; “you are 
awfully kind to me, but don’t be angry ; you must love 
me— poor me — nobody loves me. I don’t know why it 
is, but I feel sick to-night. Fatal infatuation ! Some 
day you shall feel the loyalty of my affection and honesty 
of purpose in speaking as a true friend.” 

Ronald did not answer. Her last words cut him to 
the heart, and he went out into the night, his hopes 
shattered and his dream broken. 

It was a stormy night, and the waves were thundering 
upon the beach. He walked down beside the sea, 
where the spray fell upon him, and watched the angry 
waters as they roared and hissed upon the shingles. 
For more than an hour he stood there, while a flood of 
bitter thoughts poured in upon him, and he almost 
wished that the black waters at his feet would roll on and 
overwhelm him and Ida. Then he thought of Ella and 
those pages of her journal which he had read before start- 
ing for Brighton. And for what a woman had he neglected 
liis wife — risked his worldly career and tarnished 


HIS LAST PASSION^ 


215 


honour? For her he — a Macleod — ^had stooped to lie. 
He had given her his heart ; and what had he been to 
her after all ? — a sop to her vanity, perhaps even less 
than that. 

He returned to his hotel and went to bed ; but he 
could not sleep. He felt that this night was a turning- 
point in, his life. All the hopes, the longings, the most 
ardent desires of his nature were crushed and driven 
back into his inmost soul. 

The clock struck two. Ronald remembered Napo- 
leon’s saying, that “ two o’clock in the morning 
courage ” was the only true courage, and he resolved 
that, cost him what it might, he would show Ida that 
he possessed that courage, by breaking for ever the 
shameful chains in which she held him. He rose, and 
taking pen and paper, wrote as follows : — 

“Ida, — I have waited until the anger which your 
conduct had roused in me has subsided, before writing 
you this letter ; but as it is probably the last communi- 
cation which will ever pass between us, and as it is 
possible that my disappointment may influence me to 
write what I should after careful reflection regret 
having written, I will not send it to you until I have had 
ample leisure to think over its contents. You are no 
doubt congratulating yourself that this night has not been 
passed as you may have expected, and possibly you take 
credit to yourself for your virtuous conduct; but know 
that after what has happened before between us, I con- 
sider you as much my own as if you had left husband and 
home for me, only that, had you done that, I might 
have honoured you as a woman who followed the 
dictates of her heart, instead of regarding you as one 
who, from vanity or from some lower passion, will 
lead a man to the brink of a precipice, without 
having the courage to plunge in with him. 

“ If you had been in such a position that the actual 
necessaries of life were wanting to you, and you 
had behaved to any man as you have to me, I should 
have pitied, even though I despised you. If you had 
been kept by a sense of religion or of duty from taking 
the step which you had promised to take to-night, I 
should have honoured you; but when you do all in 


2X6 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


your power to lead a man to love you — ^when, for the 
mere pleasure of having a slave at your beck and 
call, you simulate a love you do not feel and permit 
a degree of intimacy which, where there is no love, 
should be repulsive, what can I think of you? In 
looking back over these months which have gone by 
since we first met, what have I done for you ? Have I 
not given you my whole heart ? Have I not again and 
again done violence to my better feelings ? Have I not 
lied for you ? It is an ugly word, Ida, but have I not 
lied systematically, unblushingly, for you ? Have I not 
accepted favours at the hands of your husband, whom I 
designed to wrong, though I would cheerfully have cut off 
my right hand rather than submit to this degradation ? 
Did you not know that at any moment I was ready to risk 
my worldly position, my fortune — nay, my life for you ? 
And what have you done for me in return ? You have 
given me some happy hours; you have encouraged 
me to hope and to wait ; twice I held you in my 
power; twice, I repeat it, I proved my honest affection 
for you and I waited; and what is the result? what 
is my reward ? You promise me that some day if 
you feel in the humour, and I happen to be at hand, 
you will make use of me to gratify your Vanity and in- 
satiate desire for display. I am writing plainly, per- 
haps brutally, Ida, but I am writing for the last time, 
and I wish you to understand what I feel. 

“ If we meet again, as we probably shall, you will be 
Lady Atherley for me — for the Ida I have dreamed of, 
loved, nay, worshipped, exists no longer. If it pleases 
you to cut me when we meet, do so ; but I think, for the 
sake of appearances, it would be better to let our 
acquaintance die a lingering death. Good-bye. If 
you should ever be in great trouble, remember that for 
the sake of the love I once bore you I will be your 
friend ; but of love I will never speak to you again. I 
hope and trust it is dead within me for ever ; but if in 
the hereafter I should find that it lives still, you shall 
never have the satisfaction of knowing it. 

“ Yours once, yours no longer, 

“ Ronald Macleod/* 

By the first train in the morning Ronald returned to 


HIS LAST PASSlOfi, 


town. Two days later he re-read his letter and posted 
it. Lady Atherley and Miss Langmore were talking 
about him when it arrived. 

“ How odd of Mr. Macleod going away like that, 
without either telling us he was leaving or writing to 
explain it,” said Maud. 

“Well, you see, dear, I said something to him 
which he did not like while you were singing the other 
night.” 

“ Yes, you said so ; but I should think twice before 
offending a man who was so fond of me as he must be 
of you.” 

“ My dear child, what does it matter ? I have only 
to give him a sign and back he will come to my feet in 
a moment.” 

His letter was brought in. 

Ida read it with her face averted, but she could 
scarcely repress her anger enough to hide it from Miss 
Langmore. With an effort she calmed herself by the 
time she reached the end of it. 

“ What a ridiculous fellow he is,” she said, laughing, 
as she folded the letter and thrust it into the bosom of 
her dress. “ I told you he would soon get over his 
huff. Why, if I could only show you this letter — ^it 
is the wildest thing imaginable.” 

But when Lady Atherley reached her own room, and 
read Ronald’s harsh words again, she could no longer 
contain her vexation, and the tears rose to her eyes, as 
she said ; 

“ You shall pay for this, Ronald ; you shall come 
back to lick the dust at my feet like a beaten hoimd, 
though it cost me my Ufe to bring you there.” 


2I8 


HIS LAST PASSION* 


CHAPTER XX. 

VICTORY. 

Three weeks elapsed before Lady Atherley and her 
lover were brought into contact with one another. 
Their meeting took place at a dance, but though they 
had not seen each other Ida had left cards on Mrs 
Macleod in the interval, and therefore Ronald came 
forward and greeted her much as if nothing had hap 
pened between them. 

He would rather not have asked her to dance, but he 
thought that his not doing so would attract remark. 
She gave him the dance he asked for. He had intended 
to make no allusion whatever to their past, but to speak 
to her as he would to any lady whom he had met for 
the first time, but she soon led him on to more intimate 
subjects. 

“ Have you repented of your unkindness to me ? ** 
she asked, suddenly. 

“ I am not aware of any unkindness on my part, 
Lady Atherley. I thought that at our last meeting 
you told me to go, and I obeyed your orders.” 

He felt a certain kind of bitter satisfaction in calling 
her Lady Atherley, while he knew that he might have 
called her by that name of Ida, which she had reserved 
especially for him. 

“ Don’t be absurd, Ronald. You know quite well that 
you were cruel to me. Your letter was worse than 
cruel — it was brutal. It was such a letter as no gentle- 
man should ever have written.”’ 

“ Possibly so ; but since it has ceased to exist for so 
many weeks, it would be wiser for you to forget all 
about it, as you have probably forgotten all the 
nonsense I spoke to you when I loved you so madly.” 

“ But it has not ceased to exist ; I have kept it, and 
ever shall,” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


219 


“ That IS very imprudent, and I don’t see what end 
you can gain by it. You say it hurt you, then why not 
destroy it at once ? ” 

“ It is chiefly because it hurt me that I shall keep 
it.^ If ever I feel tempted to be kind to any man again 
— if ever I begin to fancy that some man really loves 
me — I shall read that letter, and from that moment 
I shall steel my heart against him, and think, ‘ After 
all, he may only be another Ronald Macleod.’ ” 

Ronald was silent. 

“ You do not say that you regret having written it,” 
she continued, “ but the time will come when you will 
repent bitterly the pain which your letter gave me.” 

Ronald shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I regret already that I have caused you pain,” 
he said, sadly ; “ but I did not see how it could be 
avoided, and I knew that at the worst it could only be 
momentary. No, Lady Atherley, I felt that I must 
write strongly, or otherwise you would believe that my 
letter was due to a fit of ill-temper rather than to a 
determination at which I had arrived after much deep 
and painful reflection. If that letter caused you pain to 
read, think what I must have suffered before I could 
write it to one whom I had loved so fondly as I did 
you.” 

‘‘ As you did ? You mean as you do still ? ” 

Ronald shook his head sadly. 

Lady Atherley’s partner came to claim her for the 
next dance, which was just beginning. 

“ We shall see,” she said archly, as she laid her hand 
on her partner’s arm and moved away through the 
crowd. Several times, as they passed one another in 
the dance, their eyes met, but they did not dance 
together again that night. 

“ What is the matter ? ” asked Ella, as she and her 
husband drove home together; “ you only danced once 
with Lady Atherley to-night — have you been having a 
quarrel ? ” 

“ Her card was filled up before I asked her to dance.” 

“ I thought that made no difference with her, and 
that she would always manage to find two or three 
dances for you.” 

“ At any rate she did not to-night.” 


220 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


Ronald had dreaded this first interview, but he was 
well satisfied with himself, for Ida had been ready to 
forgive him, and he had avoided asking her forgive- 
ness. He felt that each time he met her with- 
out a reconciliation taking place, the easier it would 
be for him to carry out his determination to free 
himself from her chains. 

During the next few weeks the Atherleys and 
Macleods saw little of each other. When they did 
meet. Lady Atherley once or twice tried to talk to 
Ronald of his love for her, but he would only speak of 
it in the past tense, and then she would tell him 
how worthless it must have been if it could pass 
away so soon ; but such taunts were lost upon 
him, for he knew that in her heart she had 
been convinced of his love and could not doubt 
it for a moment. At first Ida was piqued by this 
great change in her lover, and determined to bring 
him back that she might punish him; but as time 
wore on, and she saw no signs of his returning to her, 
she began to think whether she had not really treated 
him very badly, and whether she had been wise in 
allowing a man who loved her so devotedly to drift 
away from her. “ There are hundreds of others as 
good as he,” she would say, with a haughty air, but in her 
inmost heart she felt a sad longing to have him at her feet, 
to look into his eyes and hear his passionate pleadings. 

Meanwhile Ronald had been doing all in his power 
to drive his unfortunate passion from his mind. He 
had worked hard at his office during the day, and spent 
his evenings in preparing and delivering political 
lectures to working men, but, though he did his utmost 
to avotd brooding upon his sorrow, there were moments 
when his dream would come back to him with a painful 
distinctness, arid then he would be almost tempted to 
seek out Ida and say to her : 

“ Forgive me— let me only see you and speak to 
you as I used to, and if you cannot be to me what I 
would wish — if you cannot give me your heart — I will 
take anything you like to spare me. I will accept any 
position, I will be your slave — only let me sometimes 
feel that you care for me, let me sometimes press my 
lips to yours.” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


221 


But when such feelings rose in his breast he forced 
them back ; and once, when she wrote and asked him 
to lunch en tete a Ute with her, and added, “ Do come, 
I am so anxious to see you,” he telegraphed an 
excuse, and did not go. 

Meanwhile the Sandborough Election Petition had 
come on for hearing, and Ronald’s presence was 
necessary in the Court. As it was likely the case 
would take some days, Ella went to stay with some 
friends near London, and Ronald took up his head- 
quarters at the Sandborough Hotel. 

Fausterley, who had seen with dismay the change in 
the relations which existed between Ronald and Lady 
Atherley, was a constant visitor at the house where 
Ella was staying. He had always hoped that Ronald 
could have eventually persuaded Ida to elope with him, 
and he felt that, if such a thing should happen, Ella, 
who could not bear to be alone, would accept his offer 
of protection. But now he saw that his hopes were 
likely to be defeated, and that, if he were to win her at 
all, he would have to persuade her to leave everything 
for him, a task which might not have been very difficult 
when the knowledge of her husband’s flirtation with Ida 
was rankling in her bosom, but which would become 
almost impossible if Ronald succeeded in conquering, 
the passion which was widening the breach between 
his wife and himself. 

Fausterley, therefore, was unremitting in his atten- 
tions to El] a, and he had so far succeeded in gaining 
an ascendancy over her that he knew he had only to 
bring ber proof of Ronald’s guilt in order to win 
her. He might have fabricated proofs, for, had 
he invented some circumstantial story it is probable 
that it would have obtained credence, especially 
if there were some small modicum of truth in 
it, but he was convinced that, however his friend 
had sinned in intention, he was still innocent in fact ; 
and, with a curious inconsistency, while he was basely 
betraying a friend from whom he had received the 
greatest kindness, he yet shrank from resorting to a 
downright lie to further his designs. The evidence in 
the Sandborough Petition had been most carefully 
prepared, and the Conservative case was irrefutable. 


222 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


When the hearing was concluded, no one in the court 
had any doubt as to what the result would be, but the 
judge, finding that the hour was late, reserved his 
judgment till the next day. 

Ronald, who was anxious to return to town as 
early as possible, but would not return home until the 
decision had been pronounced, took the train to London, 
leaving word with his agent that a telegram should be 
sent to him at the Charing Cross Hotel as soon as the 
decision was known, so that he might immediately take 
the intelligence to Ella. 

It was about six o’clock when he reached town, and 
having dined he went to the Globe Theatre to see “ La 
Belle Normande,” which had just been brought out at 
that house. When Ronald entered, the first act had 
commenced, and Mr. Paulton was singing, “ He was 
such a nice young man,” with that irresistibly comic 
expression which makes even the most vapid nonsense 
appear funny when he sings it. Elated with the 
success of the petition, and amused at the Song, 
Ronald felt lighter - hearted than he had been 
since that night at Brighton. The song ended, 
he leaned back in his stall and glanced round the 
house. Suddenly he started involuntarily, and his 
pale face became yet paler, for there, within a few 
yards of him, sat Ida. She was leaning forward, with 
her shapely arm resting on the velvet cushion of the 
box, and her eyes fixed intently on him. When their 
eyes met she smiled, and nodded to him kindly. 

. From that moment Ronald found it impossible to 
pay any attention to the stage, and if there had been 
any plot in “ La ^Belle Normande,” he would have 
been utterly unable to follow it. When the first act 
was over, Ida waited till Ronald looked at her, and 
then she whispered, “Come.” 

Though of course no sound reached him, he fancied he 
heard the word, but he pretended not to understand, 
and so remained in his place.' But after waiting a few 
minutes she sent Sir Algernon to invite him into the box. 

“ I did not expect to see you here to-night,” said 
Lady Atherley, as she pressed his hand, “ for I should 
have thought that you would have remained at Sand- 
borough to hear the result of your petition.” 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


223 


“ Well, of course, I ought to have stayed, but though 
the decision has not yet been given, I have no doubt it 
will be in my favour.” 

“ I congratulate you with all my heart,” said Sir 
Algernon. 

“ And so do I. How pleased Mrs. Macleod must 
be,” said Lady Atherley. 

“ She has not heard the good news yet, for I know 
that the unforeseen may always happen, and, therefore, 
I have not been home yet; and, indeed, I am staying 
at the Charing Cross Hotel for the night, so that, as 
soon as the decision has been telegraphed to me, I can 
hasten home and surprise my wife with the intelligence 
before it can reach her in any other way.” 

“ I do envy her to-morrow morning. How awfully 
pleased she will be. Is not Mr. Macleod a model 
husband, Algernon, to prepare this surprise for his 
wife ? ” 

“ Well, I hope he is,” laughed Sir Algernon, “ but I 
hardly think the fact of his coming up to spend the 
night alone in town is quite sufficient to prove it.” 

The curtain drew up, and Ronald rose to return to 
his seat. 

“You will come and see us after the next act, 
won’t you ? ” said Ida, looking back over her shoulder, 
with one of her sweetest smiles, as he opened the door. 

“ Thank you, I will.” 

As soon as the curtain dropped again, Ronald hurried 
round to the Atherleys’ box. Sir Algernon and a. friend 
who was with him were just leaving it. 

“ Come and have a cup of coffee with us,” he said, 
but Ronald declined the invitation, and joined Lady 
Atherley. 

As soon as he sat down beside her, she took his hand. 

“ Ronald,” she said, “ I have behaved badly to you, 
I know, I have led you on to love me with all your 
heart, and I have given you but little in return. But 
give me one more trial, be to me as you have been, and 
I will prove to you that I am not so worthless as you 
think me.” 

Ronald shook his head sadly. 

“ And has your love for me so soon vanished?” she 
asked, putting her face close to his. 


aa4 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


He met her eyes steadily, and murmured ** Yes.” 

** It is false,” she said, quickly, “ you love me 
still ; this is some foolish resolution of well-doing, one 
of those momentary impulses to which we are all 
subject at times ; but I know them, they do not last, 
and within, a few liours you will repent having denied 
your love and come back to implore pardon. Am I 
not right, darling Ronald ? ” and she put her head upon 
his breast. 

He pushed her gently from him. No, Lady 
Atherley, you are not right,” he answered. “ I have 
loved you with my whole heart, and I have suffered, 
and still suffer, for that love. But it is past. I bear 
you no ill-will ; I have no unkind thought of you. May 
not that suffice ? ” 

“No,” she answered, almost an^ily ; “ you think 
you know your own heart, but I will teach you that 
you are as much my slave as ever you were.” 

A tap at the door announced the return of Sir 
Algernon. 

When the play was over, Ronald once more caught 
a glimpse of the Atherloys. It was snowing fast, 
and the difficulty of getting cabs kept the audi- 
ence longer than usual at the entrance. Ronald 
waited till his friends drove off, and then turned to 
look for a cab for himself. But the streets were 
almost empty, for the snow had fallen so heavily that 
most of the cabmen had gone home. Ronald, there- 
fore, determined to walk to the hotel. As he passed 
the Gaiety Theatre, where the people were just beginning 
to come out, a slap on the shoulder made him turn round. 

“ Why, I thought you were at Sandborough,” said 
Fausterley — for it was he who had accosted him — “ but 
come up to Scott’s and have some oysters, and tell me 
all about it.” 

“ That’s too far; it is such a wretched night.” 

*‘Why, I enjoy this; it seems so new to me. But, 
never mind ; come into the Gaiety bar, we can have 
some oysters there.” 

The two friends walked in together, and over their 
supper Ronald explained how matters stood with regard 
to the petition. When their repast was finished, 
Fausterley accompanied Macleod to his hotel. 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


225 


** Come into my room, and warm yourself for a 
minute.” 

Fausterley accepted the invitation. 

** And how about the fair Lady Atherley ? ” he 
asked, as he leant against the mantelpiece. “ I suppose 
you will let her know of your success as soon as 
possible.” 

“ She knows already. I told her to-night.” 

** Hallo ! Then things are going bon train in that 
quarter ? ” 

“ Yes, to a certain extent they are, for I have had 
the courage to tell her that my passion for her is over.” 

“ What J when she has never been yours ? ” 

“Yes. And that she has not been mine is perhaps 
the greatest consolation I have in this unhappy affair.” 

“ Well really, old chap, you are one of the most 
extraordinary beings I ever came across. But you look 
tired, so we must talk about this another time ; ” and 
with a hearty shake of the hand Charlie Fausterley 
took his leave. 

Meanwhile the Atherleys had driven to the Con- 
servative Club, where Sir Algernon had promised to 
meet some friends in order to discuss the advisability 
of having a banquet before the new session opened. 

Lady Atherley, after leaving her husband at the club, 
had almost reached home when an empty cab passed 
her. She stopped the carriage, “ Call that cab,” she 
said to the footman, who had instantly jumped down 
and stood at the carriage door. The cab drew up and 
Lady Atherley entered it. 

“ Where to, m’ lady ? ” asked the footman, with his 
hand to his hat and his face as impassive as if it were 
the most natural thing in the world for a lady to leave 
her carriage at midnight and take a cab instead. 

Take the carriage home.” 

“And where shall I tell the cabman to go, m’ lady ?” 

“ I will tell him.” 

“Yes, m’ lady,” and the footman .resumed his place 
and was driven off. 

“ To the Charing Cross Hotel,” said Lady Atherley. 
When she reached the hotel she walked up to the 
porter's desk and asked the number of Mr. Macleod’s 

room. 


225 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


** It is too late to see him now, madam. 

“ But I must see him. It is a matter of the utmost 
importance.” 

“ But he will be in bed, madam.” 

No matter, he is my husband.” 

Fausterley, who had just entered the hall, had heard 
the last words of this dialogue, and recognised Lady 
Atherley. He hastily drew back into the shadow of 
the passage, and when Lady Atherley passed him 
without noticing him he followed her up the stairs. 

When she reached the landing on which Ronald’s 
room was situated, a chambermaid who was standing 
there asked her what room she wanted. 

“ No. 89. Is the gentleman in ? ” 

“ Yes ; but ladies ain’t allowed to visit gentlemen in 
their rooms in this hotel,” said the maid, with a sneer. 

She took no notice of this remark, but the maid put 
herself in front of the door. 

“ Stand aside, idiot,” said Lady Atherley, scornfully, 

I am his wife.” 

The chambermaid drew back, and let her pass. 

So, so,” thought Fausterley ; “ and this is the man 
who rejoices over the purity of his flirtation — who comes 
to town a day earlier for his wife’s sake. And how he 
has deceived me all through. But I am glad of it ; it 
makes the deceit I have practised on him a trifle less 
distasteful.” 

And he went out into the snow, his brain seething 
with new projects and hopes. 

When Ida entered Ronald’s room he was sitting in 
an armchair before the fire, clad in a warm dressing- 
gown. As she closed the door behind her he started to 
his feet and stared at her as a man might stare at some 
supernatural vision. 

“ Good God, Lady Atherley !'” he said, “ what are 
you doing here ? ” 

“ I have come to you,” she said, quietly, 

“ Why ? ” " 

** Is this the way to receive me ? ” 

“ Surely you are mad — go ; for God’s sake don’t 
stay one moment. Your name — your reputation— will 
be irretrievably lost. I implore you to go.’* 

Ida took off her opera cloak and flung it on a chair. 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


227 


“ No,** she said, “not yet. You told me to-night 
that your love for me was past. I told you you were 
wrong. I told you that you would ask my forgiveness 
for having spoken such heresy, and I am here to grant 
you that forgiveness.” 

“ By the love I bore you, Lady Atherley, I implore 
you not to prepare for yourself a life-long regret, but 
go now, before it is too late.” 

She sat down, and began taking off her gloves. 

“ It is comfortable and warm here,” she said. 

He took her cloak and placed it on her shoulders. 

“ Think of your name,” he said. 

“ How should I think of it when you seem to forget 
it ? Don’t you know that there is no ‘ Lady Atherley * 
here ; only ‘ Ida,’ your own Ida.” 

He stood by the mantel-piece ; and for a moment 
both were silent. 

“ Do you know you are but an indifferent host, mon 
ami ; is this Highland hospitality ? ” 

“ Oh, won’t you go? ” 

“No, not if you send me from you like this.** 

She rose from her seat and put her arms round his 
neck, and as she looked into his eyes her lips moved, 
as if inviting a kiss, but he moved not an inch towards 
her ; and when, an instant later, she pressed her lips 
to his, she found them cold and motionless. 

“ Do you know,” she said, as she nestled close up to 
him, “ that I never expected to see you so indifferent 
toward me. Perhaps I have been cruel to you, but if I 
have I am sorry.” 

Ronald was silent. 

“ You know I liked to see you so mad as you 
used to be, and to know that I could play upon your 
nature as one plays upon a musical instrument; and 
when I saw your protestations of love, I confess that I 
liked to feel that I was the one woman toward whom 
you had an honest regard.” She added, in a voice which 
was scarcely audible, “ I don’t think that you have 
ceased to care for me.” 

A deathly pallor had overspread Ronald’s face, and 
his whole frame trembled with the violence of his 
emotions. 

“ Oh, Ronald, you used to kiss me so lovingly, to 


22 $ 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


plead to me so passionately, and now that I have come 
to you, have you no kiss for my lips, no word of love 
for my aching heart ?” 

“ Ida, have you no pity? I know you never loved 
me, but this is more than I can bear ? Why do you 
come to me like this. If you had loved me you would 
have come long ago, but now it is too late.” 

I know I treated you ill. But your love was dear 
to me ; your passionate words were like music to me ; 
and look, rather than lose them I have risked reputation 
and everything to come to you to-night. I don’t know 
if I ever loved you, I don’t know if I can love, but I will 
show to you that I am not a heartless coquette. And 
now tell me you love me still.” 

“ No, Ida, that is past for ever, I cannot be satisfied 
with less than your whole heart.” 

“ At least give me one of those mad kisses before 1 

go-" 

“ No, no, Ida, do not ask it; I cannot, I must not 
kiss you. Henceforth I shall never kiss a woman again 
save as a brother may kiss a sister or a father his 
daughter.” 

“ Just one kiss, Ronald, one little tiny kiss, and I will 
go. Ha ! you dare not trust yourself, for you know 
that you still love me, you know that it is not so easy 
as you may think it now, to forget the past — the 
past . . . .” 

She sank on her knees at his feet. 

“ Here, Ronald, here, on my knees. I, who never 
begged a favour of any man, I beg your forgiveness.” 

“ No, Ida, it cannot be,” he said, as he "strove to 
raise her. 

Suddenly she sprang to her feet and drew herself up 
to her full height. Her eyes seemed to flash fire, and 
her lips, from which all the colour had departed, were 
drawn back tightly and showed the faultless symmetry 
of her pearly teeth as they glistened in the firelight. 
Her right hand was stretched forward menacingly to 
within a few inches of his face. 

“ Fool — cursed fool ! ” she hissed rather than cried ; 
** you have trampled on a woman’s love. You shall 
learn the full measure of a woman’s hate,” and, seizing 
her cloak, she rushed from the room. 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


229 


Ronald stood for a moment motionless, listening to 
her footsteps as she hurried along the passage ; and 
then, taking her glove, which had fallen on the floor, he 
pressed it to his lips in a long burning kiss, and, sink- 
ing back into a chair, he buried his head in his hands. 

Pulling the hood of her cloak as far as possible over 
her face. Lady Atherley ran down the broad steps out 
into the night. She paused for a moment to call a cab, 
but not one was within the station-yard, so she hurried 
on into the Strand. The snow was still falling fast, 
and an unwonted stillness reigned over the dreary 
scene. Scarcely a vehicle of any kind was passing, and 
those few which glided noiselessly by were all occupied. 

Still Lady Atherley waited, hoping to find some 
means of getting home. A drunken fellow, with an 
extinct pipe in his mouth, came rolling by. He 
stretched out his arm and encircled her waist. “ Goo’ 
night, ducky ; sorry can’t shtop, got a p’tiklar ’gage- 
ment.” 

She pushed him away, and he fell in the snow. Then 
while he swore at her, and tried to find his hat and 
pipe, she gathered her cloak closer around her and 
ran straight before her. Onward she sped — stopping 
whenever any shadowy vehicle came looming through 
the snow, and then when each new hope had given 
place to a fresh disappointment, she started forward 
again, until at last, worn out with fatigue and vexation, 
she reached her own door. 

Bring me some brandy and soda,” she said to the 
footman who opened the door, and, going into th« 
dining-room, she flung herself into a chair. 

While the footman was busied preparing the drink. 
Sir Algernon walked into the room. 

“ You can go to bed,” he said, turning to the foot- 
man. 

“No, not yet ; he is getting some brandy for me — I 
am ill,” said Lady Atherley. 

It was a terrible moment, that. The footman, who 
felt that his master and mistress were anxious to be rid 
of him, bungled with the soda-water bottle, broke the 
cork, and was obliged to use a corkscrew. At last he 
handed her the glass and withdrew. She put it to her 
lips and took a long draught* 


230 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


** Where have you been ? ” asked Sir Algernon, while 
his eyes rested on the satin dress, all stained and 
crumpled by the snow. 

“Where have I been?” repeated Lady Atherley, 
slowly rising and moving towards the door. “ I have 
been out,” and, flinging the door open, she ran down 
the passage and tried to shut herself in her boudoir ; 
but her husband was too quick for her, and before she 
could lock the door he had forced it open and stood 
over her. She crouched down upon the sofa, while he 
locked the door after him. 

“ Where have you been ? ” he asked again, with 
enforced calm. 

“ I don’t choose to tell.” 

“ But I insist on knowing,” said Sir Algernon, with 
difficulty keeping down his anger. 

“ Oh, you insist, do you ; very well, then, you shall 
know, and much happiness may the knowledge bring 
you. I have been to the Charing Cross Hotel ; and 
do you wish to know why ? Well, then, I went to Mr. 
Macleod’s room to tell him I loved him ; and now are 
you satisfied ? ” 

Sir Algernon fell back as if a shot had struck him. 
His wife had spoken in a low sullen tone, and she sat 
there gazing fixedly before her. He clenched his hands 
nervously, and walked once or twice across the room. 

“ Since you own your shame thus openly,” he said, 
“ I shall go to-morrow to my solicitors.” 

“ Go to the d *, if you will,” she shrieked, spring- 

ing to her feet and speaking rapidly in a sudden access 
of fury — a passionate outburst in which the pent-up 
feelings of the last two hours found vent. 

“ Poor miserable dotard,” she went on, “ you think 
I have owned my shame, do you ? but you shall hear 
it yet. Yes, I have been to him, and I, Lady Atherley, 
have offered my love to him. Nay, on my knees, I have 
begged him to give me his love ; and he has spurned 
me from him, and driven me out into the gutter.” 

As she finished speaking, she flung her arms into 
the air and fell heavily to the ground. She had 
fallen with her left arm under her body, and her 
head far back. Her husband looked at the 
outstretched throat, and his hands twitched ner- 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


23t 


vously, while a hideous thought flashed through his 
brain. But it was gone in a moment, and he took a 
vase of flowers from the table, and emptied the water 
from it upon her face ; then he knelt beside her and 
chafed her hands. At length her eyes opened, and she 
stared vacantly before her. 

“ How dark it is,” she murmured, “ where am I ? Oh 
yes, I know,” she continued, dreamily, “ I told you and 
then you struck me here,” and she put her hands to 
her forehead. Sir Algernon was sitting in a chair, his 
brows knit together and his eyes fixed upon her with 
a glassy stare. 

Struggling to rise. Lady Atherley knelt with her face 
buried in the sofa, moaning as if in pain. 

“ He would not even kiss me,” she said, speaking’to 
herself, and altogether heedless of her husband ; “ and 
yet I love him so — and oh, my God ! how I hate him, 
for he was cruel, so cruel. If he had only taken me 
once in his arms, then afterwards I would gladly have 
died. Oh ! to be his for one short hour, to feel his 
kisses as I felt them here in this room. I would give 
my life — ay, and his, too.** 

“ Adulterous woman,’* cried Sir Algernon ; “ you 
shall leave this house to-morrow, and I will thrash this 
miserable paramour of yours.” 

Lady Atherley staggered to her feet once more — 

“ D coward,” she said, while a look of the 

deadliest hate stole over her features ; “you would not 
dare to touch him.” 

“ We shall see that, madam.” 

“ Yes,we shall see,” answered Lady Atherley, and open- 
ing a secret drawer in the honheuvduj our v^hich. stood there, 
she drew out a paper and held it towards her husband. 
It was an old letter, in his own handwriting, a portion 
of which had been burnt. As soon as he recognised 
it he sank back into his chair powerless. 

“ And you knew this ? ” he said. 

“ I knew it,” she answered, coldly ; “ let us have no 
more recriminations, and no more threats,” and placing 
the fragment in the bosom of her dress she unlocked 
the door and went to her room. 

The next morning Charlie Fausterley rose early, Ha 
packed a small portmanteau with great care, and 


232 HIS LAST PASSION. 

having breakfasted, he took a cab and drove to his 
bankers, where he drew a cheque for £ 100 — which left 
his balance in a very attenuated condition. Then he 
asked for a pen and paper, and wrote a note to a friend 
who shared his chambers with him. 

‘‘ Dear Atwood, — I am hurriedly called away. Don’t 
give my address to any living soul ; but, if any im- 
portant-looking letter comes for me, forward it to me 
at the Hotel du Grande Monarque, Brussels. 

“ Yours faithfully, 

“ C. F.” 

Then he put it in his pocket and looked at the 
clock. Only a quarter-past ten ; still half an hour 
before Mrs. Macleod’s train was due at Victoria. He 
strolled down to the station as slowly as possible. Still 
ten minutes to wait. He walked into the refreshment 
bar and ordered a brandy-and-soda. He looks very 
pale, and the kind-hearted barmaid gives him a liberal 
allowance of brandy. A moment later the train is 
steaming into the station. 

Ella caught sight of him, and he came to open 
the door for her. How kind of him always to come 
and meet her, she thinks, and yet she has made up 
her mind to say something that will hurt him. 

During those bright days she has been spending in 
the country, the fresh air has done her good, both 
physically and morally, and she has thought to herself 
that perhaps she has been in some measure to blame 
for her husband’s present infatuation ; and then, as for 
Charlie, she has been letting herself like him far too 
much. He is always with her, and she knows that he 
loves her and is always wishing — wishing — then is she 
not wrong to encourage him ? She will not send him 
away : no, that would be ungrateful ; but she will tell 
him that he must never come any more except by 
Ronald’s invitation, and that he must never speak to 
her of love again. And then she will go to Ronald and 
warn him that he is risking his own happiness and 
hers, but that she is ready to forgive everything, 
to try to make herself more necessary to him. She 
feels now that she should have spoken to him 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


233 

long ago, and but for her pride she would have done 
so— ah ! she was very wicked to let that foolish 
pride come between them, for she was sure Ronald 
was good at heart, and really fond of her, how- 
ever much that odious woman might have drawn him 
away from her. 

“ You don’t look well,” she said, as she alighted on 
the platform. 

“ Oh, I am all right, but I have something to tell 
you. Come into the waiting-room, it will be empty 
now, and as there is a good deal of luggage we shall 
have time to get yours afterwards.” 

Half- frightened at his earnest manner, she follows 
him into the waiting-room. 

There he begins at once. 

“ You told me I was mean in betraying Ronald. 
Perhaps you only half-believed what I told you, and 
you asked me for proofs. I have been mean — I own 
it; and I would undertake any action, however 
repulsive it might be to me, in order to gain you. But 
now chance has given me the proof you desired of me.” 
And then he tells how Lady Atherley had passed as 
Ronald’s wife at the Charing Cross Hotel. 

“ Oh, Ronald ! ” she mutters, “ how can I keep myself 
true to you when you are so ready to fling me aside for 
the first woman who cares to flatter your vanity ? ” 

Then Fausterley pleads to her passionately. All the 
love that has been growing in his heart rushes to his lips. 
Why live out a miserable existence with a man who 
slights and neglects her, when there is another ready 
and willing to make a goddess of her — to look upon 
her as the Alpha and Omega of his existence ? 

She stands there mute — irresolute — her hands in his. 
And then in her mind begins that fatal comparison be- 
tween the husband and the lover, which is so dangerous 
to a woman’s peace. On the one hand, a man who is 
cold, indifferent — kind enough at times, perhaps, but 
only when there is no other woman there ; a man 
who makes . her feel at pvery moment that she is 
only the second — who has to be reminded two or three 
times that she wants something before he can remem- 
ber to get it. 

And then, on the other hand, a man who is all 


234 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


devotion and tenderness, who is quite blind to the 
charms of any other woman, and seems to have eyes 
for her alone ; and then how gentle he is — ^how con- 
siderate ; a* most before a wish is quite formed in her 
mind he has interpreted it ; why even Ronald has told 
her she would be very ungrateful if she did . not like 
him for all the kindness he has shown her. Then why 
let this man suffer, when she can make him happy by 
leaving a husband who will forget her existence a few 
days after she is gone ? But then comes the doubt — 
what if this story of the hotel were not true? She 
turns to him — 

Charlie, you say you would be guilty of any action 
to get me ; how can I know that what you have told 
me is true ? ” 

“ You doubt me,*’ he answers, while a look of triumph 
lights up his eyes, for he knows by her way of asking 
the question that his victory is near at hand. “ Well, 
I like it better so. Come with me, and I will give you 
proof.’* 

The luggage is put on a cab, and they drive to the 
Charing Cross Hotel. Ella has tied an extra veil over 
her face. She leans on Fausterley’s arm, for she feels 
that, in spite of her efforts to keep calm, her knees are 
trembling. 

“Is Mr. Macleod here ? ” asks the young man, as if 
it were a matter of no importance. 

“No, sir ; he got a telegram about a quarter of an 
hour ago, and he paid his bill at once and went away.*' 

“ You don’t know where he is gone ? ” 

“No, sir,” 

“ Can you tell me if Mrs. Macleod was with him ? * 

. — he feels Ella’s hand clutching his arm convulsively. 

“ Yes, sir — well, that is to say, she came to him last 
night, but she didn’t leave with him — so, perhaps, she 
went away while I was off duty ; but I’ll inquire.” 

“ Oh, never mind. I only wanted to know if she 
was in town.” 

Ella seems almost stunned ; she drives back with 
Charlie to his rooms, and remains in the cab while he 
rushes up the stairs and fetches his portmanteau. No 
compact is made between them, no plans are decided 
upon, but when he takes her back to the station, and 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


235 


has their luggage labelled for Brussels, she speaks no 
word of resistance, but goes with him mechanically as 
one walking in a dream. 

Meanwhile what of Ronald ? There was no need to 
open his telegram, for was it not addressed to Ronald 
Macleod, Esq., M.P. ? He, too, had made resolutions 
during the long sleepless hours of the night. He would 
be different to Ella. He would be so kind and 
attentive to her, he would give her more amusement. 
Then he would work hard — he would make a name 
that she should be proud to bear ; and as for his sin 
(for he owned to himself that in heart he had sinned 
deliberately, almost without a struggle), well, it had 
brought him more suffering than pleasure, and she need 
never know of it, perhaps it was already buried and 
done with. Of course his heart was broken, and no 
woman could ever be anything to him again, but he 
would bear his sorrow in secret, and no one, not even 
his greatest friend, Fausterley, should know that he ever 
thought more of it than as a momentary folly. When 
he reached home his first question was : 

“ Has Mrs. Macleod arrived ? ” 

“ Not yet, sir, we expect her every minute.” 

He was glad to be home before her, he would give 
her such a warm welcome and tell her of his success. 
Aftei half an hour he began to feel rather uneasy. 
Then he remembered the heavy fall of snow. Of 
course, she might be an hour or two late ; perhaps the 
train might even be blocked. He went into his study 
and took up a book. The first that came to his hand 
was an old favourite of his, “ Les Contes Drolatiques,” 
of Balzac. He opened it at “Le Succube,” and read 
of this d&mon ayant visaige de femme — an amiable and a 
not altogether unlovable d&mon — many things which 
reminded him of Ida. There were the descriptions of 
her; 

“ Ung pied plus menue que n'est licite a femme vraye de 
V avoir, et d' entendre sa voix qui virvouchioyt au cueur. . . . 
Pensant a ceste gracieuse et foyhle femme, dont les bras luy sem^ 
hloyent nagulres trop mignons pour soustenir le Ugier poids 
de ses chaisnes d'or, . . . Elle ha tout le feu de Venfer 

en son giron, la force de Samson en ses cheveulx et apparences 


236 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


de musicques celestes en sa voix. . . • \Les\ attraidi 

magicques de sa per sonne supernatuvellement amoureuse,** 

Then the love that she inspired : — 

^^L'qyant apergue, avoyt esU fertt pour elle d'mg grant 
amour. . . . Fescoutoys la musicque de sa voix, laquelle 

me reschauffioyt de la teste aux pieds et me faisoyt treuver que, 
pour une heure pass&e en sa compaignie mon heur dernel n' estoyt 
qu' une foyhle solde des plaisirs de V amour goustez en ees hr as 
mignons. , . . le n'avoys nul soulcy des chouses de ce 

monde, ni des inUrests de Dieu ne resvant que d' amour. 

And now all was over. The demon of the story had 
given love for love, passion for passion, blit Ronald had 
been able to get no deeper with Ida than her feelings of 
vanity, or perhaps to awaken in her a transient wave 
of desire. He closed the book, and for a moment 
abandoned himself to sad reflections. Then he thought 
of his wife. He began to feel uneasy about her, and 
walked to the station to inquire about the trains. 
There he learned that the delay had amounted to a 
very few moments. 

“ She will have started by a later train,” he thought, 
and then he waited for the next to come in. But when 
it arrived he scanned the carriages eagerly in vain. He 
was disappointed, but no fear assailed him. He sup- 
posed that she might have been persuaded by her 
friends to stay till the afternoon, or perhaps even till 
the next day, and that he would have a letter or tele- 
gram before long. If anyone had hinted to him the 
real fact, he would have received the suggestion with 
scorn and incredulity. • 

He returned home to lunch, as he thought a telegram 
might be awaiting him, and he determined that after 
lunch he would go down and fetch her unless she turned 
up in the meantine. She would like the attention, and 
as he had arranged not to go into the City that day, he 
could easily aferd the time. It was disappointing, 
though, that he would not be the first to tell her of his 
success. He had finished lunch, and was just filling 
his cigar-case, when a servant came in with a letter. 

“ Here’s a letter from missus, and I do hope there’s 
nothing wrong with her, for it’s in pencil.” 

The maid stood waiting while Ronald opened the 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


337 


letter, for she was deeply attached to her mistress, and 
the unusual appearance of the letter frightened her. 
Her master’s face was turned away from her, and she 
could not see the fearful pallor that overspread it as he 
read the letter. It was written in pencil on the back of 
a portion of his last letter to her, and ran as follows : — 

“ I KNOW all — your coming to town when you 
led me to believe you were at Sandborough ; your 
stay at the Charing Cross Hotel with your wife. But 
this is not written to reproach you. I am sure 
you have often wished to be rid of me. Your wish 
is granted. Be very kind to the children, for, 
remember, they have been guilty of no sin. Try to 
think of me as I used to be before you made me the 
foul thing I am, and then imagine that I died before I 
took this fatal step. 

« Ella. 

“ P.S. — I am not alone.” 

A deadly sickness came over him as he read the 
words, but he retained enough presence of mind not to 
let the maid discover his emotion. 

“ I hope there is nothing wrong, sir ? ” she asked. 

He laid the letter down upon the table and finished 
filling his cigar-case, while he answered with a 
calmness that surprised him ; — 

“Your mistress is not very well; she may not be 
back for a day or two, but no doubt she will write 
again to-day. I will let you know if she does.” 

Then he went into his study, and with the letter 
spread out on his desk he sat and thought. At first 
all seemed confusion in his brain. Thoughts of 
vengeance against his false friend (for he never doubted 
for one moment that he had been betrayed by 
Fausterley) — of his own shameful passion for Ida — 
of the time so long ago now when Ella and he 
had been all in all to one another — thoughts where 
a half-formed picture of his last interview with 
Ida was strangely blended with a memory of the 
scene in which he had first vowed to Ella that to her 
he would be true for ever and ever — thoughts wild, 
tender — now hazy, and now minutely distinct, rushed 


HIS LAST PASSIOH< 


238 

through his mind with maddening rapidity, leaving 
him conscious alone of a sense of intolerable pain. 
The hours passed and still he sat there, until at last 
he realised that man must do as well as think. But 
what could he do ? Track down the villain who 
had been the instrument of his terrible punish- 
ment and shoot him down like a dog? Pshaw! the 
days of duelling are past. Even if he succeeded in 
finding Fausterley, was it likely that this man would 
care a rap for the effete laws of honour when his heart 
was so devoid of all honourable feeling. True, he might 
break his whip across the scoundrel’s face. But what 
satisfaction could the infliction of a trifling physical pain 
upon his rival give him ? Would that bring back his 
honour ? 

And Ella — what of her ? He did not blame her. 
No ; he felt that he had been guilty, that he alone had 
brought this punishment upon himself. Had he not 
neglected her, slighted her for another woman ? 
And now, when he remembered how all his feelings 
and wishes had been confided to a traitor, he owned 
that, if ever one wrong can excuse another, this wrong 
of Ella’s might be excused by the greater and far more 
deliberate wrong which he had striven for months to 
accomplish. But it was not the past alone that 
occupied his thoughts — more awful still the future 
loomed before him. If Ella, by her rash act, had 
brought his punishment upon him, how far more 
terrible still would be her own expiation of that 
punishment. For if Fausterley could act so treacher- 
ously to him, how would he keep troth with 
her ? And then he pictured her in that inevitable 
moment, when possession should have cooled her 
lover’s passion — when, abandoned by him, she would 
be cast penniless and friendless upon an unforgiving 
world. 

“ I must save her from this,” he cried. “ I am the 
cause of all this misery, and at all hazards I will save 
her.” 

In a moment his resolution was taken. Then 
a great calm fell upon him, and he seemed to 
see everything with wonderful clearness. Un- 
locking a drawer in his desk he took out his 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


239 


will and read it. It was a very simple docu- 
rnent giving her everything he possessed during her 
lifetime, and after her death dividing it between his 
children. He now made a codicil revoking her interest 
under it, and giving her ;^300 a year for her sole and 
inalienable use. Then he wrote down a full statement 
of his worldly affairs, explaining exactly how matters 
stood between himself and his partners, and adding a 
few brief directions as to the education and advance- 
ment in life of his son, and, sealing up the paper, 
directed it to his executors. He next drove to his 
solicitors, and, having signed the codicil, left the will 
with them. After that he went to his bank and 
drew a cheque for two hundred pounds, and then 
returned home. This money he placed in an envelope 
directed to Ella. 

“ She will find it convenient when she comes back,” 
he thought, as he placed all the keys beside it and shut 
his desk. 

The dressing bell rang. 

Heknewthat he could not eat. He rang for the servant. 

I am going to dine out,” he said, “ but I shall not 
be late. See that the bath-room fire is lighted, as I 
want a hot bath.” 

Then he went out and wandered through the snow 
whithersoever his feet led him. He was oppressed by 
the unusual stillness. The few horses which were 
floundering along knee deep in the snow drifts seemed 
like phantoms, so noiseless was their progress, and the 
voices of the occasional passers-by seemed deadened 
by the cloud of minute snowflakes which filled the air. 
The cold was severe, and the streets seemed almost 
deserted. 

Suddenly Ronald stopped. He was in the Bucking- 
ham Palace Road, passing the very spot where he had 
overtaken Ida and Miss Langmore in the cab many 
months before. There he had jumped out in the mud, 
and taken her hand for a moment. Vividly the scene 
rushed back to him — it seemed that the cold and the 
snow, and the darkness had given way, and that he 
was standing once again in the glorious sunshine — his 
heart full of gratitude and hope. Then all was dark 
and cold and dreary again. 


240 


HIS LAST PASSION, 


The hours dragged wearily along, and still Ronald 
walked and walked. For a moment he stood on 
Westminster Bridge, and looked into the black water. 
** It looks very cold,'* he thought, “ I should not like 
to go out through that door." 

Presently he remembered his new dignity. How 
strange it seemed to him, as he looked at the Houses 
of Parliament and remembered how anxiously he had 
desired the right to sit there, and, now that he had 
obtained it, he was never to exercise it. 

‘‘ And I suppose I am what the world would call a 
‘ successful man.’ ’’ 

The clock struck the half-hour past ten. 

“ It is time,” he said, and he started off at a brisk 
pace towards his home. 

When he reached the house he sent the servants to 
bed. Then he went to the bathroom and placed a 
small table beside the bath. Upon this table he laid 
his cigar-case and a copy of the Koran — it happened to 
be the first book that came to his hand. Then he 
brought two bottles of champagne and a glass, and, 
having taken off the wire, he went to his dressing-room. 
Opening a small case, he took out a lancet and tried 
the edge on his hand. It was very sharp, but still 
he drew it once or twice along his razor-strop. 
He looked at the veins in his wrist. The cold 
had numbed them, and they were scarcely visible; 
then he turned down one of his socks. The saphena 
vein was swelled from his long walk. That will do 
better,” he thought. He felt no fear, no repugnance, 
at what he was about to do ; he knelt down and 
prayed : 

“ Oh God ! if thou art. and if thou hast power, have 
mercy on me ; have mercy on us.” 

“ Perhaps I am praying to the winds,” he thought. 
“ Who knows ? ” And then “ perhaps I shall in an 
hour or so .” 

He was returning to the bath-room, when a cough 
attracted his attention. It came from his daughter’s 
room. 

“ Yes, I will see her once again,” he thought, and a 
pang shot through his heart as he remembered that his 
boy was away at school, and that, therefore, he had 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


241 


seen him for the last time. He pushed the door open 
noiselessly, and stood beside his child’s bed. The fair 
little face lying there, surrounded by a cluster of golden 
curls, brought back so forcibly the memory of that 
morning when he had awakened and seen for the first 
time the innocent face of his child-wife lying beside 
him, that he stood gazing intently at it as if spellbound. 

The child opened her eyes. 

“ Is that you, father ? Kiss me.’* And she held out 
her arms to him, and when his lips touched her a happy 
smile lighted up her face for a moment, and then she 
was fast asleep again. 

Hitherto his thoughts had been only of his own 
misery and Ella’s future. . Now he thought of the fair 
young life before him — a life destined to be blasted at 
the very outset. How would it fare with her ? — when 
her father had died by his own hand, and her 
mother was an outcast and pariah ? But no — that 
at least would be avoided, for when he was gone Ella 
could be an honest woman, lawfully married to her 
lover. And yet, what if in her remorse at first hearing 
of his death, Ella were to take some step which should 
for ever damage that fame which he was dying to save. 
Or what it h austerley should reluse to give his name to 
the woman he had dishonoured ? How easy death 
seemed to him in that moment, but he felt that he had 
no right to die. 

“No,” he thought, “ 1 must make one effort for both 
their sakes, I can always die if that fails.” 

Then he crept back to his room, and, locking away 
the lancet, he returned to his study and wrote to his 
wife ; — 


“ My Dear Ella, — Do not fear to read this letter. 
I shall not add one reproach to the burden which your 
mad act v’ill entail upon you. I know you, Ella, and 
I knov/ that you must have been mad when you 
consented to do what you have done. I could say 
much to you to show' you that your sin will inevitably 
bring misery upon you ; for though Charlie may be 
all love and devotion to you now, and though you may 
believe that his love will last for ever, I know that 
the time wiU corne when he will feel that you 

0 


242 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


are a drag upon him, that you are keeping him away 
from all respectable society, that you are hindering him 
from making a figure in his profession, and then the 
very magnitude of the sacrifice which you have made 
for him will be a constant though silent reproach to 
him. And can you place much reliance on a man who 
to win you has not hesitated to stoop to the basest 
treachery towards a man who has never shown him 
anything but kindness ? F or, remember, his has not been 
alone the treachery of destroying the home of one whom 
he was wont to call his best friend, but to do this 
he has not scrupled to betray secrets which were 
confided to his keeping. 

“ But it is not by pointing out to you the unhappiness 
which will fall upon your own head that I hope to save 
you from utter ruin. You say in your letter : ‘ Be very 
kind to the children, for remember, they have been 
guilty of no sin.’ And will you not remember that 
too ? Will you not save your daughter from the 
disgrace of being the child of an outcast mother ? 
Some day that stain may deprive her of that 
happiness which every girl has the right to 
hope for. Will you not have pity on your child before 
it is too late ? And it is not too late, Ella. Come back 
to me. I knowhow much my sin is the cause of yours. 
Come back, and I will never embitter your life by one 
reproach. Him, of course, you must give up entirely 
and for ever, but I will try my utmost to lighten your 
suffering. Perhaps you will hesitate on account of 
Lady Atherley, but I swear to you now — in this moment 
of bitterest sorrow, when my heart is so crushed that 
I am incapable of hiding one thought from you — I 
swear that with her I have been guilty in thought only, 
and not in deed. I know it will be hard for you, who have 
heard of her visit to me at the hotel, to believe this, but 
I tell you that on that occasion I did not even touch 
her lips, but, on the other hand, I said ‘ Good-bye * 
to her for ever. 

“ To-morrow I leave for Paris. I will stay at the 
little hotel in the Rue Jeanne d’Arc, where we passed 
two days last year, and I will give out here that we 
are taking a trip to Spain. If you join me within a 
fortnight the worst, at least, may yet be saved ; if not| 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


243 


all is lost. If you have any difficulty in getting away^ 
let me know where you are and I will come for you, 
and, in that case, I promise not to injure him. You 
see I am ready to sacrifice everything — even vengeance. 
Will you not come ? 

“ Ronald.” 

He sealed the letter and took his pen to write to 
Fausterley, for he knew that it was through him alone 
that he could reach Ella ; and then the fearful thought 
came upon him, “ She is in his arms now at this very 
moment,” and then his resolution almost failed him. 
But soon this thought followed, “It is I who placed 
her there,” and he wrote thus to Fausterley : — 

“ I AM not writing to characterize your conduct. 
Your own conscience will tell you more plainly than I 
can how vilely you have acted. No, I am writing to ask 
something of you. Will you give the enclosed letter to 
her ? She need not fear it, it does not contain one word 
of blame for her, but only tells her those things which 
it is necessary for her to know. If you are so mean as 
to refuse this request, I trust you will at least send the 
letter back to me unopened. Do not fear that this is a 
trap to find you out. You can enclose the letter to a 
friend in London, and have it posted to me there, if you 
dare not give it to her.” 

He placed this and the letter for Ella in an enve- 
lope, and wrote ‘‘Important” on it, and directed it to 
C. Fausterley, Esq., leaving the address blank. Then, 
having removed the traces of his intended crime, he 
threw himself on his bed, and passed the night in a 
state of feverish anxiety. All seemed dark and 
hopeless before him ; nor could the thought that he 
had acted generously, and sacrificed every feeling 
and wish of his own heart in order to save Ella 
and their child, bring him one ray of comfort. The 
next morning Ronald drove to Fausterley’s chambers. 
He found Mr. Atwood — who shared them with him — at 
breakfast. 

** Can you give me Fausterley’s address?” he asked. 

Well, I don’t like to, for though I have it, he has 


*44 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


asked me not to give it to anyone. Of course, I know 
he couldn’t mind your having it, but as he said I was 
not to give it to any living soul, I feel I ought not to 
let even you know it.” 

“ Oh, all right ; never mind about it, but I have a 
letter here which he ought to get without delay. Can 
you forward it to him ? ” 

‘‘ He shall have it by to-morrow. But how awfully 
seedy you are looking. Have you been ill ? ” 

There was a pause, during which he did not answer. 
He stood looking out of the window, and wondering what 
chance there was of his letter ever reaching Ella. 
Would Faust erley give it her, or would he tear it up 
undelivered, and so put an end to all hopes and possi- 
bilities of a reconciliation ? 

“ You are looking really seedy,” repeated Atwood. 
“ Won’t you have some refreshment ? ” 

“No,, thank you. I am rather knocked up with the 
excitement and worry of my election petition.” 

“ Oh, yes, of course. I saw it in the Globe last night. 
I suppose I must congratulate you, though I rather 
lean to the other side.” 

“ Thanks,” said Ronald, and attempted a smile as hv. 
shook hands with Mr. Atwood and left the room. 

“He didn’t like it,” thought Mr. Atwood; “how 
absurd to be so touchy.* 

And so ends the story of this unhappy passion. Well 
might Macleod in his anguish call aloud in the words 
of Balzac, which I have quoted in the title-page, 
“ Where is the flower of my life ?” To many of his 
friends he appeared a fairly prosperous man, working 
hard for his family. They noted whatever vivacity he 
used to possess had completely deserted him, and 
that his conversation was dull and uninterest- 
ing. Ronald is most assiduous in his attention to 
his Parliamentary duties, and has not missed a single 
division since he took his seat. His maiden speech, on 
the Irish^ Land Act, was not brilliant, but it was 
characterized by clear good sense, and Mr, Gladstone 


HIS LAST PASSION. ^45 

professed himself willing to accept the amendment 
which he had proposed. 

He makes a most useful member, and pays great 
attention to the local interests of the borough which he 
has “ the honour,” as he says, of representing in Par- 
liament. He frequently visits the Home Office, the 
Local Government Board and the offices of the Eccle- 
siastical Commissioners in support of local claims or 
with a view to the removal of local grievances. 

He has ceased to cherish any ambition or confi- 
dence in his own ability. He knows perfectly well that 
he will never rise above the level of dull mediocrity. 

The Atherleys and Macleods do not meet often, but 
when any chance brings them together the ladies are 
most cordial in their greetings, and even in their hearts 
neither bears any particular ill-will towards the other. 
Ronald is always on the look-out to do some service to 
Sir Algernon, in order in some measure to wipe out the 
wrong he once was tempted to inflict upon him, but there 
is a coldness in Sir Algernon’s manner which keeps the 
men apart. 

The friendship that once existed between them can 
never again be resumed. The irrevocable past cannot 
be forgotten, and the phantom of by-gone days is ever 
before them when they meet, chilling them with its 
ghastly presence. 

Lady Atherley has danced a great deal this season 
with Lord Marchington, and she is perfectly sincere 
when she tells him that Mr. Macleod is very dull and 
bores her awfully. 

Charles Fausterley sailed for Calcutta in the early 
spring, and has commenced practising at the Indian 
Bar, with every promise of having a fairly successful if 
not a very brilliant career. 

And of the Macleods’ home life, they see as little of 
each other as possible ; for, though each is willing and 
anxious to forgive and forget, yet their wounds are so 
recent that not a day passes without some word, 
some look, some gesture, which touches one or other of 
them to the quick. Already the children, with that 
terrible intuition which makes them notice all things we 
would rather leave unobserved, are beginning to realize 
th^it th^re i§ something wrong between their parents, 


HIS LAST PASSION. 


246 

and that father and mother are not to each other what 
they used to be. Unhappily, all the relationships are 
uncomfortable. Here is a prospect of one of those 
wretched homes which resolves itself into two partisan 
camps, and great, indeed, is the tact and savoiv vivre 
which makes life possible under such circum- 
stances. Now that Fausterley is gone, Ella 
misses the comfort of having someone constantly about 
her whose chief thought was to please her, and who 
lavished on her a thousand little attentions, which she 
scarcely noticed at the time, but which nevertheless 
added greatly to the pleasure of her life. For a time she 
assiduously accepted all invitations, and sought a dis- 
traction which she soon found unbearable. And now, in 
the long, dreary days she learns the truth, which she 
had never realized before, that her heart had been given 
to him long before that fatal moment when she travelled 
to Brussels imder his protection. 


FINIS. 


Scott awo Co., Bouverie Street, ItC 


HAVE YOU READ 


JUDAS ISCARIOT? 

Thirty Thousand Copies sold in Three Weeks. 

The most startlingly suggestive work issued this 
decade. Brightly written, uncompromising, accu- 
rate, and fearless. An exhaustive expose. 

PRICE, 50 CENTS. 


. . A furious and unconditional attack upon the 
Jews. . . — The Weekly Star, San Francisco, Cal. 

“A venomous attack on the Jewish race. .. . 

— Utica Morning Herald. 

. . An indecent and scurrilous attack on the 

Jews. . . — New York Sun. 

. . The author is evidently no friend of the 

Jews. . . — The Beading Herald. 

“It is not pleasant to realize that the author of 'Judas 
Iscariot’ ... is really a person of literary attainments, 
with a wealth of language in the expletive, objurgatory line 
second to few who have essayed to write on subjects of social 
and national interest. . . — Newan'k Evening News. 

“ . . . Actuated by the purest motives in attempting 

to head a crusade against a certain body of American citizens.” 

— Albany Sunday Express. 

“ . . . An open attack upon the Jews calculated and 

intended to stir up race prejudices. Such publications are 
utterly pestiferous.” — Herald, Chicago, Ills. 

^ READ IT! ^ 

Sent, prepaid, on receipt of price. 

NEW YORK; 

THE MINERVA PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

48 University Place. 


Taylor’s Hotel, 

Jersey City, April i6th, 1889. 

Minerva Publishing Co. 

Gentle77ten : 

Last week, while in Chicago, one of my friends, a 
newspaper man located there, handed me a copy of “Judas 
Iscariot,” and in doing so averred that I would “doubtless 
find it intensely interesting reading and possibly deem it an 
acquisition to my library.” This unstinted praise, coming as 
it did from a man of acknowledged learning, gave me the right 
to expect “Judas Iscariot” to be far above the average book, 
and justice to its author (who seems to be waging — with ap- 
parently irrepressible bravery — an unequal conflict against a 
mighty and an unscrupulous enemy) compels me to say that I 
consider my friend’s encomiums by no means undeserved, for 
the repeated perusal of its pages has not only afforded me 
considerable pleasure, but lays me under the necessity of add- 
ing my tribute of praise ; for, without the slightest reservation, 
I would say that the author of “Judas Iscariot” is unquestion- 
bly a man of erudition and deep research, as its pages exem- 
plify a most remarkable familiarity with the subject under its 
various aspects. I regard myself. under a deep obligation to 
my friend for the book. . . . 

Yours with felicitations, 

L. PIERRE QUIROULE. 


BOOKS OF HIGH MERIT 

AND THAT EVERYBODY TALKS ABOUT. 


THE ORIGINAL MR. JACOBS; paper, 50 cents. 

THE AMERICAN JEW; paper, 50 cents. 

JUDAS ISCARIOT; paper, 50 cents. 

A FAIR CALIFORNIAN; paper, 50 cents. 

A MODERN DON JUAN ; paper, 50 cents, 
RYLLIS DARKE ; paper, 25 cents. 

DR. PHILLIPS ; paper, 25 cents. 

MINON; paper, 25 cents. 

HER SACRIFICE ; paper, 25 cents. 

A FALSE CONCEPTION; paper, 60 cents. 

HIS DOUBLE LIFE ; paper, 50 cents. 

MISLED; paper, 25 cents. 

BASIL MORTON’S TRANSGRESSION; paper, 50 cents. 
MIKE FLETCHER; paper, 50 cents. 

UNSATISFIED; paper, 50 cents. 

ANGEL OR DEVIL; paper, 50 cents. 

MY STRANGE PATIENT; paper, 25 cents. 

NEW STORIES, by De Maupassant ; paper, 50 cents. 
MARRIED BY PROXY; paper, 25 cents. 

THE PREACHERS ; paper, 50 cents. 

APPLES OP EDEN; paper, 25 cents. 

TEMPTED ; paper, 25 cents. 

SOCIAL LEPERS; paper, 50 cents. 

A PHENOMENAL IDENTITY; paper, 25 cents. 

THE VIDOCQ OP NEW YORK; paper, 50 cents. 
THE WAY TO THE HEART; paper, 25 cents. 
FAMOUS NOVELS BY GREAT MEN; paper, 50 cents. 

THE BANKER’S SECRETARY; paper, 25 cents. 

A BALL NIGHT; paper, 25 cents. 

HIS LAST PASSION ; paper, 25 cents. 

THE DEMON ENGINE ; paper, 25 cents. 

THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE ; paper, 
50 cents. 

ESCAPED; paper, 25 cents. 

IN SEARCH OP OPPORTUNITIES ; paper, 25 cents. 
ALMOST PERSUADED ; paper, 50 cents. 
JUSTIFIED ; paper, 50 cents. 


Fer sale everywhere, or will be sent, prepaid, on receipt of price. 

THE MINERVA PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

48 University Place, 















» “ I 

9 




• • 


■N 
. * 


* •% 
I 




I 


> • 
P 



« 


*- . 


41 


*•' '/■ ■» i 

* » 










. % 







Ilk 



r* 




V 



^ 9 
* • 



• i 



* 



% 




















i^^i/^i V T f iH^W 1 















D00231'=i4m7 




